


The Human Limitations of Katsuki Yuuri

by Gee_Writes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Coach Victor Nikiforov, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, European Figure Skating Championships, Four Continents Figure Skating Championships, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Phone Sex, References to Depression, Switching, Therapy, World Figure Skating Championships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gee_Writes/pseuds/Gee_Writes
Summary: If he was just the youngest of the Katsukis—onsen owners in a quiet seaside town—he would probably never have had to worry about the plump roundness around his stomach and thighs much more than the blushing shame of how ill-fitting his clothes would get in his more sedentary months.Instead, he’s Japan's top figure skater, Katsuki Yuuri: the committed partner and only student to legendary skating great, Viktor Nikiforov.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note of the tags for this fic, and read at your own discretion.

Yuuri's relationship with his body has always been…

Problematic.

If he was just the youngest of the Katsukis—onsen owners in a quiet seaside town—he would probably never have had to worry about the plump roundness around his stomach and thighs much more than the blushing shame of how ill fitting his clothes would get in his more sedentary months. Despite being heavier than the other kids, he always had enough stamina to scrub the onsen pools without a break; no need to catch his breath between running dozens of laundry loads three times a week. If his life had continued down it’s expected path he would have been able to indulge in his favorite katsudon from time to time, helping his family run their inn as the town fluctuated between the quiet seasons and the tourism heights.

His anxiety complicates things just a little more. When the worst bouts hit—thoughts spiraling into sadness and the negative feelings feeding into each other until he doesn’t know how to even breathe anymore—he leans on food like a crutch, comforting as much as it betrays. Salty, heavy and cloying, filling the cracks between where his most sensitive parts are exposed to the poisons in his mind. The reality means his clothes have never fit properly for more than a couple weeks, with how often he sheds and gains weight. Yuuri is his own worst enemy—no one could demean or distrust him as much as when he’s taunted by his own mind, stuck in the lowest trenches he can throw himself into.

Ballet hadn’t helped either. Yuuri has always been drawn to the beautiful—graceful lines of dancer’s bodies, the fluidity and focus of routines ingrained into each and every movement of his teacher Minako. When you’re creating something so enchanting, so enrapturing with only your own body and skill, there’s no place for those lacking.

The cruel taunting from others had started almost immediately—fat kids can't dance, can't balance, aren't beautiful, after all. Minako-sensei never let any of that happen during class, but in a community as close as the coastal town of Hasetsu, there was no escape from the sneers of other kids. Six years old and subjected to heavy stares and snickers at his tummy or legs as he moves to position; jeering whenever he stretches at the barre. Ballet is a  _ discipline _ —in every sense of the word—and chubby, shy Yuuri is the farthest thing from the little girls sharing the class. He had only continued on Minako-sensei's insistence and the protection from his singular friend Yuuko, because despite it all he  _ loved _ it. The countless hours spent in the studio as Minako teached him steps and poses and movements he had never dreamed of before. Skating was a natural progression, switching slippers with blades as Yuuko had shown him how to stand, to move, atop frozen ice. His heart soaring when he could move with the music, leaping and spinning just like in the studio, as the melody took his imagination beyond the cool shores of Hasetsu and the warm springs of the onsen.

That life could have been manageable. He could have just been Katsuki Yuuri—onsen keeper’s son, part-time dancer, novice-ranked skater—a nobody from a nowhere town living his life as everyone had expected, without caring about his weight like he does. Instead, he had found Viktor.

Or really, he should say, the  _ world _ had found Viktor.

Viktor Nikiforov’s senior debut had changed Yuuri’s everything—being once again inexplicably drawn to the graceful, gorgeous and unfathomably talented. The Russian teen had given Yuuri something he wanted to pursue without clearly understanding why; all he knew was his heart, his soul, had been called to, and he couldn’t ignore it. Skating had already become such a instrumental part of Yuuri’s self-expression, but being confronted with someone so captivating tangled him up until there was nothing else he could do  _ but _ skate. Finishing his training at Ice Castle as he muddled through Novices, and then Juniors for a long six years after that day. Splitting his time between sessions with his coach and the numerous responsibilities of a middle school and high school student. Those days had been singularly focused on his goal of growing, exceeding, the expectations of himself. His middle and high school peers paid little attention to him—the quiet kid who would often disappear after classes to go to the rink alone, missing days for competitions—and it wasn’t so much lonely, as it was a realisation that his life had been uprooted from the regularity of everyone else.

It was only two months after graduation that Yuuri had moved to Detroit. About to debut into the senior division and adjusting to a internationally-renowned coach, the shift was terrifying as it was exciting—so he had once again searched for comfort in the oversized and under-seasoned junk food of his new home, as cheap as it was prolific. It had meant pushing himself hard before the season start to get back to his original size, but Celestino had never commented on his gain or loss of extra pounds either way.

His time in the United States was five years of more blisters, sweat and bruises than he had ever thought possible, but between the training, competitions and study his life was fairly mundane. His American rinkmates were all kind and friendly, but Yuuri had always felt like an outsider to their bubble of community. Fluency in English means little when half of conversation with native speakers is inside jokes to pop culture or nostalgic references that Yuuri had never seen or experienced. He didn’t have humorous anecdotes about post-Church breakfasts at IHOP with his family, or know the ‘proper’ words to Disney songs. His childhood spent with Doraemon and World Masterpiece Theatre on television, rather than Barney or Reading Rainbow.

It hadn’t been until Phichit, another kid far transplanted from home and lost amongst the sea of American assumption, that he had found a true friend. Thanks to him, Yuuri finally made the effort to visit popular spots around Detroit on their days off without feeling unanchored. They teased and tested each other with words they otherwise wouldn’t have learnt—like  _ unassuming _ and  _ ricochet _ —and explored local cheap eateries in their mock attempts at culinary criticism; nothing ever spicy enough for Phichit, everything always lacking a depth of flavor for Yuuri. Phichit never corrected his pronunciation with an amused chuckle, or got shocked when he forgot the English word for glasses despite owning his own pair—and Phichit’s ease of making friends meant that they both gradually started hanging out with his other rinkmates too. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to say that Yuuri had discovered America through Phichit, as odd as it sounds. He had grown as a person and an athlete in those years, culminating in finally,  _ finally  _ reaching the coveted Grand Prix Final.

It had been a disaster, as everyone knows—his first opportunity to impress the man he had been following, idolising, since pre-pubescence wrecked by sadness and self-hatred. It’s quantifiably the lowest point of his life so far—fat, grief-stricken, guilty—but there’s no regrets he has now for the past because it had been the starting point for all the wonderful, challenging, exciting experiences he’s had over the past eight months. His future found, unveiled from the warm waters of the onsen.

Because now, at twenty four, Yuuri isn't just a innkeeper's son with a childhood formed with ballet or ice skating, or some dime-a-dozen skater who had wasted a lifetime of work and international expertise in one terrible stretch—he’s Japan's top figure skater, Katsuki Yuuri: the committed partner and only student to legendary skating great, Viktor Nikiforov.

The very same Viktor who Yuuri had been chasing for half his life in an attempt to draw his attention and approval, who could take half a year off his strict diet regimen and only have half a kilo to work off before being ice ready. The same Viktor who had spent his entire career being monitored and measured by the FFKKR to ensure he was the perfect image of the skating elite; who had learnt his English from a mix of British tutors and international competitions. His whole life dedicated to training, learning, becoming everything Russia needed to dominate the sport. Surprising fans and the community at large each and every season, as his scores crept up and up and up, until surpassing him seemed impossible. Even Yuuri, in the weeks before his disastrous GPF debut, hadn’t expected to  _ win  _ against Viktor Nikiforov, living legend.

The Russian has been such an icon, a pinnacle, for so long that even amongst fellow athletes he’s seen as untouchable and infallible. Viktor’s metabolism has never betrayed him with a stubborn fat paunch that sat on his hips, regardless of exercise regimen; and his skin isn’t littered with the stretch marks across upper arms, thighs, stomach from unexpected weight gain. He’s struggled in more ways than Yuuri could ever know, but his body’s function, his weight, has never been the problem.

Which is why Yuuri knows Viktor could never truly understand the worries he harbours about those things. That all the sweet words and soft caresses of his fiancé’s interest can only work so well against the memories of being fifteen and sneakily skipping meals whenever his parents were too busy with the onsen to notice. Yuuri had willingly made the choice to submerge himself into a sport where the difference of mere grams can make or break landing a jump, or ending up sprawled across the ice. Had spent his whole life with the Japanese and American media telling him his worth was directly related to how he looked—people praising his skating with how talented he was, ignoring the constant hard work of dieting and practice to keep himself acceptable for the sport.

He once mentioned in an interview that his best skill was losing weight—he’s been doing it constantly since the sixth grade, after all—and he’s gotten it down to a fine art, this cycle of weight gain and loss. The punishing workout routine and diet plans he follows during the lead up to the season is exactly that—a punishment for being so weak, in letting himself slack off again when he’s no longer center ice. Of turning into the heavy pudge of his shame.

Viktor had found him in Hasetsu in that state. Disgusting, fat, a  _ pig _ . Hardly worth being recognised as a professional athlete, internationally recognised—representing Japan with every word he speaks, meal he eats, performance he gives. 

He won’t let that happen again.

Because now Viktor Nikiforov has given Yuuri more than he ever wanted or expected. He’s gifted Yuuri with so much  _ hope  _ for the future, and so many things to look forward to. He wants to  _ be _ his best and to  _ do _ his best, no matter the cost. Because Viktor isn’t the skater he’d built within his mind from the decade’s worth of posters he has or from the hours of interviews collected across Youtube. He’s not the Russian-language magazine spreads from the lead up to the previous winter Olympics, or the array of medals accumulated from competitions across the globe. He’s not even the star skater under Yakov Feltsman’s tutelage, Russia’s pride and joy.

Instead he’s Yuuri’s Vitya.

The Vitya who kisses his dog good morning and good night unfailingly at the top of her scruffy head, and who mindlessly hums advert jingles that he overhears from the television. Awkward in reading Yuuri’s irrational thoughts and emotions, but earnestly trying to be supportive despite that. Most comfortable when able to embrace Yuuri close, even if the sun or steam is sweltering and they’re both sweaty. Who worries about his fine, thin hair disappearing. Yuuri’s Vitya has deep tear troughs and a larger-than-average-nose, and sixteen freckles across his skin that only appear under the sun. Two of his bottom teeth overlap just a little, and he has a major scar from when he snapped his tibia in the lead up to the 2008 Trophée Éric Bompard. 

Littered with so many imperfections and inflections that had been hidden by photoshop or camera angles in order to present the flawless to the world—but Yuuri has discovered it all, and loves it all. Sometimes in the comfortable moment after a kiss Viktor looks so present, so found in the action, that it’s impossible for Yuuri to not kiss him again. They’re going to get married once Yuuri wins gold, and then he’ll be able to cherish and love the other man for as long as he’s allowed.

Yuuri’s Vitya is different from the world’s Viktor Nikiforov, and it makes it less nerve-wracking when thinking about his future and career when he knows he isn’t alone.

God, he misses him so much.

 

*

 

“Love doesn’t fix all your problems; it just gives you the strength to face them” someone had once said, apparently, and Yuuri can’t help but feel it in his bones—the yearning need to talk with, touch, see, his Vitya; half a world away, being drilled on routines by his own coach as the two prepare for Russian Nationals. Yuuri still in Hasetsu, practicing for his own. It had only been a week since his silver win in Barcelona, but the pressure of truly being alone for the first time in months sits under his skin and makes him uneasy, even if the thrill of skating against his greatest inspiration is overwhelming. He knows falling in love, being in love, hasn’t made anything about himself fundamentally change, but it’s easier when Viktor is around with his soft looks and careful adoration to remember that this isn’t all a dream. That he isn’t going to wake up to last spring: snow on the streets, and the onsen empty of one enthusiastic Russian.

He’s living in a future  _ that _ Yuuri would have never believed.

They go through his filmed practices over video call—Yuuri getting ready for bed, and Viktor edging as much time possible between his ice time, lunch and cross-training—but it’s not the same as melting into the onsen side-by-side, running practices with his coach watching at the barrier, or sharing a meal together. He’s been working hard to keep himself from getting too upset over the distance, but they haven’t planned for him to properly move to Saint Petersburg until after Europeans at the end of January, and Yuuri doesn’t know how he’ll survive until then. It was Yuuri’s decision—not wanting to risk being a distraction to his coach, his love, in the lead up to his major international return—but he’s regretted every moment of it since waving Viktor goodbye at the departure gate. Their kisses long and lingering in Barcelona’s airport as boarding calls rang out and the rest of the Russian team went on ahead. Having to eventually separate with a final squeeze and whispered promises swapped between them—wishes and love and devotion—to head to their respective destinations.

Yuuri had had his celebratory Katsudon, but the taste didn’t feel like the comfort and congratulation of a win as much as it did the ache of longing.

But Yuuri has never liked to drag out his own self-pity, and rather than let himself mope around the onsen for too long, he doubles down on training to ensure that he’s the best he can be when reuniting with Viktor. He’s not going to betray the trust his coach, fans and competitors have placed in him. His routines will be strong enough to take gold, finally, at Four Continents and Worlds. He’ll finally be able to skate against Viktor with the intention of  _ winning _ , breaking his fiancé’s five year streak without worrying the world will hate him for it.

He has a plan.

Spins, step sequences, jumps—he hones them all until he feels as sharp as his skates. Lets himself spill his emotions onto the ice when things threaten to be too overwhelming and he knows he won’t be able to hear Viktor’s voice for hours more. He lives at the rink whenever he’s free, Yuuko and Minako overlooking his practice in place of Vitya. If Yuuri had learnt anything this season, it’s that he’s far from alone in his hometown; it’s not just Viktor, or Yuuri himself that he’s winning a gold for—it’s for everyone in his life who has supported him. For his family who budgeted in costs for new skates and costumes even when tourism was falling, the Nishigoris who made the rink feel as warm and welcoming as his own home, Minako-sensei who never laughed or told him to reconsider the direction of his programs. For those sleep-drunk nights dreaming with Phichit, promising they could rise to the podium; or the sharp, irritated call outs from Yuri Plisetsky, goading Yuuri to be better.

This season will be the proof that all of them were right to believe in him for so long.

It lights a fire in him—using his inner strength to keep moving forward to his best future. One where he can proudly stand aside his fiancé. One where he makes him his husband, after skating,  _ winning _ , at Worlds. Yuuri collects every yearning flutter of his gut, his groin, his heart, that he gets during his phone conversations with Viktor—the Russian’s English always out of breath between periods of practice, and accent curling around his words so sublimely—and pours it into  _ Eros _ . Embodying the seductor and the seducted with every flick of his wrists, every shift of his hips. He knows it’s getting close to perfect when more than once Minako calls him to the side to ‘cool it’, Yuuko mysteriously absent or mouth agape.

Now, his ace in the hole, the quad axel, is his biggest hurdle—no one has ever tried it in competition, and not even Viktor has seen Yuuri’s attempts at a jump most consider impossible. The double and triple axels are some of his signature moves, so he’s sure he can do it. Even if he’s hitting the ice now more than he ever had as a novice.

The axel is the last part of the puzzle. His flip he’s landing nine times out of ten, but he can’t rely on only those odds for competition. Worlds are only weeks away, and up against Viktor and Yuri and JJ and countless others, he needs an edge. Something never done before.

Something to guarantee him gold. To guarantee him Viktor.

Barcelona flashes in his mind—so close aside from touching down with his hand—and it keeps him dedicated to it. One more,  _ one more _ , and then he can rest. Minako forces him off the ice before he’s ready to leave, but the ache in his legs betrays that she might be right to.

He jogs the way back to the onsen through the frosty winds of Hasetsu bay, disregarding the scream of his muscles in protest and the bruises blooming across his body, and joins his family for dinner. The hours pass with a fickle sensitivity during the day—always too fast during practice, when he’s never satisfied; and stretching out unendingly in these quiet moments when he can’t distract his thoughts, missing Viktor acutely in the lead up until he can call. Yuuri sits aside Mari as rice is served, Minako joining the Katsukis for a meal yet again at the other end of the table. His grilled fish sends fragrant steam from the plate alongside the warm miso and sliced daikon—a stark difference to the more winter-appropriate meals his family enjoys—but he eats without complaint.

It’s one of these routine evenings that starts it all.

“You should have some more rice, Yuuri”, Minako insists, two bottles into her favourite sake. She’s waving the rice spoon around, making a grab for his empty bowl.

He can’t afford the added carbs, it doesn’t balance with the amount of practice he’s managed. Minako’s reproachful look she sends when he’s about to refuse keeps him quiet, but he’s acutely aware of how high she piles the sticky grains into his bowl.

Instead, Yuuri laughs self-consciously before accepting the food. It’s okay, he rationalises, it’s early. He can burn it off.

After dinner he soaks in the onsen, letting the coiled tension in his muscles soothe. He stays just long enough that the pain of the day has washed away almost completely, even as the bruises on his feet darken. The cold weather is quick to sink into his bones this time of year if he’s not careful, and his toes already feel the nip just walking back to the main changing area. Toweling himself dry, Yuuri waits for the usual tone from his phone indicating that Viktor is free to talk—there are six hours difference between Hasetsu and Saint Petersburg, so it’s just past three in the afternoon for his fiancé. Yakov usually only keeps the senior skaters at the rink until early afternoon to make time for the novice and juniors after school hours, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.

The warm lamp light in the bedroom Viktor once used to occupy is welcoming as Yuuri slides the door open. Makkachin follows him in, satisfied after her cursory sniff around the grounds, relieving herself before bed. The room is still full of Viktor’s stuff—as if he’s just downstairs drinking with Minako, rather than back in the city he called home. The sheets haven’t been changed since before Barcelona, and although his mother had encouraged him to clean the bedding, Yuuri didn’t want to lose the barely-there cling of Viktor’s scent left under the blankets. When he had returned home alone, there had been no question which room he was going to occupy—even if it did remind him of how much he missed the other man.

It’s almost ten by the time Viktor calls. Makkachin having found her usual place at the foot of the bed, curled up against Yuuri’s legs as he listens to his Russian language app. There are a handful of words he already knows—some from years ago, when he had just been a fan, hopeful to someday meet the living legend who inspired him; and some more recent, that Viktor presses into his skin whenever they make love—but none that will really be much help if he’s planning on living there full-time. He pauses the smooth voice of the woman enunciating the word for bus stop just as the second ring starts, and can’t help the happy exhale that escapes when he greets the other man down the line.

“Viktor.”

“My Yuuri,  _ Zolotse _ , how I’ve missed you.” The warmth of Viktor’s voice soaks even deeper into his body than the onsen had, and Yuuri curls himself up a little tighter, wishing he could reach out across the distance and draw the other skater near.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says.  _ Too much for words _ , he doesn’t say. “Has your practice been going well?”

“It’s going better than I hoped, but I doubt Yuri and Georgi will be losing their place on the podium.” Viktor sighs a little in acceptance at the difference between his rinkmates who had dedicated the year to their programs already, and his own last-minute efforts. “Yakov still won’t give me extra time in the evenings to practice, but I promise I’ll be back to normal by the time you see me, Yuuri; I need something to do now that the apartment is so quiet.”

Yuuri has never been to the apartment in Saint Petersburg before, of course, but it doesn’t mean he can’t understand what his fiancé is talking about. Even he, surrounded by his family, friends and Makkachin, feels the melancholy ache of loneliness during the silence.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he chides to Viktor in his best attempt at a gruff Yakov-impression. It’s terrible, and Viktor laughs kindly despite not sounding like the aging coach at all. Yuuri loves when the happiness spills out of his partner so easily—flowing like a river and clear as a bell—and he muffles his own giggles into his hand before continuing fondly.

“But really Viktor, please look after yourself. Nationals are less than a week away for both of us, and then it’s only a few more weeks after that that I’ll be with you.”

Viktor makes a sound suspiciously like a whine as he says, “remind me why you aren’t coming here right away after Nationals?”

“Because I don’t want to be a distraction whilst you’re so busy preparing for Europeans,” his explanation sounds more like a rationalisation for his own stubbornness the more and more time passes, but Yuuri has commit to himself that it’s better for them to focus on their individual goals this way. “Plus there’s packing, Makkachin’s health checks, organising my long-term visa. It’s not that much longer.”

“You’re not a distraction, Yuuri—Motivation! You’re my motivation!” Viktor once again ignoring all the rational reasoning to cut straight to Yuuri’s secret wishes. His worries have no power under that reasoning, and Yuuri can never seem to wholeheartedly disagree.

“Then use that as motivation forwards until we see each other again,” he says instead.

“Ah, My Yuuri, so cruel,” he whines, and Yuuri can perfectly see the exaggerated swoon his fiancé is likely doing. “Expecting the impossible after abandoning me.”

It’s said in jest, but already a sick heaviness settles in Yuuri’s gut even as he laughs—his mind second guessing his decisions. Anxiety returning in echoes as it mocks him, chastises him, that his situation doesn’t deserve complaining about when he has so many people around him supporting him, even though he’s so often the cause for his own problems. That Viktor, without his dog, without the season’s worth of practice and preparation, is handling things far better than Yuuri. He's never been in love before, not like this, and his thoughts assure him that he's ruining the careful balance they've so meticulously built.

He squashes them down. Takes a breath. Ignores his mind. There’s time to feel like a fraud later, when he isn’t talking with the one person who he’s always been working towards.

The silence has already stretched on too long after his laughing stopped, and Yuuri panics as he tries to stop the conversation from turning awkward. He knows he’s too late when Viktor asks, “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

Desperately, he stumbles into the strongest emotions he has, even as he tries to avoid them.

“Nothing, I just. Just—thank you for believing in me—in us—and our future. I’m working hard so I can be proud to return to you with gold,” his voice cracks in an ugly way against his emotions. He sounds  _ terrible _ , but still he keeps talking. “A-and to be able to support you as you skate again—I know Saint Petersburg is where you need to be right now, and we’ve both got responsibilities…but still, I wish we were together, Vitya.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line the moment Yuuri uses the diminutive, and Yuuri can’t help crooking his lips into a wobbly smile.

“Me too. I wish you were with me too, Yuuri.”

Yuuri loves him  _ so much _ , and he finds it hard to breathe properly every time he realises it.

Makka huffs in encouragement as she sleeps, and Yuuri can’t avoid confronting even his most trivial his weaknesses with Viktor around, so this is no different. He smiles, even as tears thicken in the back of his throat and he clings closer to the phone.

“I’m so selfish, still worrying about my own feelings when you're going through so much more. I want to support you properly, but there’s—God, Viktor, I just want to-to make you proud of me.” He’s holding back the tears, just, and it feels like a victory.  _ Viktor doesn’t like tears _ his mind traitorously supplies, and he tries to bite back the welling sob in his chest. His breathing grows laboured as he wills himself not to just hang up and avoid embarrassing himself any further.

“Oh Yuuri, My Yuuri, I’m already so proud of you.” Viktor replies before Yuuri’s mind can betray him again, an urgency to the edge of his voice. “Everything is alright, I'm fine. You aren’t selfish for prioritizing yourself.”

The words have a clarity and determination hard enough to dispel the thick fog of anxiety in his mind, and Yuuri leans into them, knowing how genuine they truly are, even if his mind is still spilling traitorous poison.

“We seperated too soon after we had just figured everything out,” Viktor continues, quietly letting Yuuri focus on his voice. “I wish I could be with you right now; I miss you more than anything. More than I ever missed the ice.”

Yuuri really does sob at that; Makkachin awakening from dozing to butt her nose into his side in concern. His free hand pets softly through her curls, and it’s just enough to get his voice working again. 

“Thank you, Viktor. I don’t think I say it enough, but thank you for everything.” He’s sitting upright now in the bed Viktor had once occupied, head lolled to one side as his knees move up to his chest—eyes still wet, but voice regaining its calm. His mind isn’t willing to accept Viktor’s words as facts without caveats, but there’s relief in letting the emotions he’s collected spill out into the space between them.

“You don’t need to thank me for anything, Yuuri. I’m the lucky one.”

It seems so obvious, so simple in this moment as he hears the words, but Yuuri’s sure the doubts will creep in again before too long. Until then, he basks in the love he feels for Viktor. He nods in reply to the Russian’s words, a silent reaffirmation that Yuuri keeps to himself.

They talk a little about Yuuri’s most recent practice—everything aside from the secret quad axel—Yuuko having emailed the recordings she made to Viktor directly. In return, Viktor keeps the specifics of his own routine vague, determined to surprise Yuuri along with the rest of the world.

They exchange their  _ I love you _ s as Viktor gets ready for his scheduled afternoon gym time, and Yuuri slowly has to return back to being alone in the onsen. He wipes his face from the few errant tears that had escaped once the call is ended and hugs the pillow from Viktor’s side to his chest, smothering his face in it for just a moment. Their talk had relit the determination inside Yuuri’s heart like it always does—a cycle unbroken by distance or time—and he’s going to work harder than anyone else to ensure that gold will be  _ his _ . His mind needs clearing, and thanks to the phone call rejuvenating his energy after the long day, Yuuri makes the snap decision to take a run despite it nearing 11:30 at night and being the middle of winter.

Changed into his workout gear and an extra jacket, he’s heading downstairs with his runners in hand when he notices his mother and Minako still talking in the dining area. His attempt at passing by unnoticed is fruitless, and Minako waves him over with a smile—still obviously buzzed from sake and conversation—patting by her side for him to sit down.

“What are you still doing up?”

“I just finished talking to Viktor. He’s training hard for Nationals,” he explains, hoping any evidence of his crying is lost in the haze of sake. “I was going to take a walk for a bit and think about things.” It’s a white lie, really. He needs to burn off all the lingering emotions from their conversation if he ever wants to sleep. Plus, the memory of the extra bowl of rice from dinner is haunting him again now. He had binged badly before the second half of the GPF and Nationals the year before and reaped the consequences… he wasn’t going to let that happen again. Burning off just that  _ little _ bit more is fine.

His plans are partially thwarted though, when his mother suggests he walks Minako home instead. The streets can be icy this time of year, and even though she was hardly  _ drunk _ , walking all the way home alone could still be dangerous. She’s going to be acting as his stand-in coach for Nationals, so she doesn’t want to risk injury. Going on his planned run is definitely a bad idea too—twisting an ankle or breaking a leg would ruin everything—so he changes plans and agrees without question.

They walk side-by-side, arm-in-arm, making sure to avoid any icy areas. The chilled air stings pleasantly against his skin and his raw emotions, and Minako takes a deep inhale and exhale as they go.

“How is Viktor?”

“I told you-” cutting off when she gives him a  _ look _ , knowing he can’t avoid her shrewdness. Practically a second mother, she knows him like her own child. More so, maybe, than his own—Minako also having lived the life of the international elite, knowing the pressures of perfection from the very thing you’ve dedicated yourself to. The raw edges of himself from the earlier emotions seem sharp in the cold of near-midnight, and he’s sure the dancer can see them.

“It’s hard for both of us…being seperated is lonely, but we’re both working hard towards our own goals. Things will be easier once I move over there, I’m sure.”

Minako just hums in response, patting his closest hand as they near her apartment building. There’s no one out this late, and the small seaside town is even more peaceful than usual.

“I was actually going to ask…tonight, can I use the studio? I want to go over some of the moves for my programs.”

Head snapping around, Minako reigns in her yell just enough so it doesn’t make his ears ring in their close proximity. “Yuuri—it’s the middle of the night!” Her volume control non-existent thanks to the sake and her free arm waving around them, as if to emphasise her point. There’s no other sound save for the distant crashing of waves and the muted buzz of the streetlights—Hasetsu is asleep, their conversation lost to the snowy weather. “I know Nationals are just around the corner, but you need to rest too.”

Guilt twists his stomach, but he needs to convince her. 

“It won’t be for long, and you don’t have to be there. I just—please, just for tonight? There’s something I’m feeling right now that I need to remember.”

It’s probably only thanks to her soft spot for him and her intrinsic understanding as a dancer that she agrees; letting him use her dance studio just down the road. He takes her spare key in hand once she retrieves it from the bowl of miscellaneous keys on the side table by her genkan, and bids her a good night—promising that he’ll go straight home once he’s done.

He doesn’t use any music as he warms up, steps through his routine, and practices his programs. He lets go of the parts of himself overcrowded by thinking and just moves. It’s only once his limbs are warm and tight with the tension of a solid workout again does he stop, three hours later. Tomorrow—or really, today—is a planned rest day, so he can take the opportunity to sleep in. He’ll ask Yuuko for some ice time in the afternoon though—pushing in as much practice as he can get for the axel.

It’s a countdown until he leaves for Nationals, and Yuuri’s is going to use every second of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I come once again bearing gifts.  
> This fic was written for the AMAZING Tiffany (which yet again took me a year to finish), who wanted a fic exploring Yuuri's body and weight issues, as well as some other really interesting, but heavy, topics. I don't often write angst, so please forgive my inexperience, as well as any mistakes that I may have made with regards to details of disordered eating. Research can only provide so much outside of personal experience.
> 
> This fic has been completely written and will post consistently each week from the 29th Nov to 25th Dec. (Our boys' birthdays.) Enjoy, and please leave a comment if you'd like!!


	2. Chapter 2

The rink at Osaka buzzes with press and fans.

Yuuri has spent the last two days in the city, sightseeing with Minako and attending scheduled practice sessions alone. There are rumors floating around about his coach’s absence, he’s sure, but the gossipy whispers haven’t managed to shake the pointed focus he has on topping the podium. The routine he keeps with Viktor has switched to texts-only over the competition, and the last time they had shared a call was as Viktor had been boarding his three-hour flight to Chelyabinsk.

After everything—the breakdowns, the spiralling doubts, the absent warmth—Yuuri doesn’t know how it’s possible his days can ache even just a little more now that he’s missing Viktor’s voice. He knows it would be a distraction though, so keeps himself preoccupied rereading the various texts.

The hollow ache? Easily ignored. He’s done it for years at this point.

The other senior skaters warm up or talk with their coaches in the lead up to the first men’s group. Yuuri does his warm up jumps as he watches them all pass by—mostly teens, light as a feather and blessed with the elasticity of youth. Last year he had hardly noticed the other skaters at Nationals, so wound up in his own despair, disappointment and desperation, and it’s odd to realise how much more experience he has amongst the group of young men surrounding him. Yuuri’s not  _ old _ , just barely peaking now at 25, but  he feels steadier at the realisation. The people in this room don’t doubt that Yuuri is Japan’s ace—maybe never did—but Yuuri hadn’t fully felt deserving of the title until now. His ever-present fear of being exposed as a fraud and undeserving is lost amongst the undeniable awe some of the younger skaters are captured with; the press’ excitement at his grand return. Yuuri has tousled with the best in the sport all over the world, won competitions on days he’s wanted to fall apart. Spent every breath these past months perfecting his routines, now so intimately entwined with his heart.

Yuuri  _ knows _ he can win gold. And that’s the biggest surprise for him.

The competition is strong: beautiful flowing piano like a stream running down the mountains as spring erupts, Minami’s energetic swing capturing the energy of the crowd effortlessly, a solemn oboe melancholic and yearning. The programs and scoring seem to turn over faster and faster as the minutes tick down—and then it’s Yuuri on the ice, a vision of black and red and silver catching the light.

It’s no secret what his routine is—the entire figure skating community probably saw it in the preliminary competitions or Barcelona—but Yuuri wants to wow everyone here regardless. He melts into the moment and lets every carnal desire he’s felt for his fiancé fill his steps. There may be screaming from the crowd, there may be scandal from the judges, but Yuuri just hears the whisper-soft gasps of Viktor’s pleasure in his memory. His jumps land perfectly, and he doesn’t even hear the clash of blade to ice—moving into the next component following the pulse of the guitar in his veins. His oozing seduction not as flirty or flighty as the original choreography—now tinted with the heart-aching  _ want _ he has for only one person. Attempting to reach his feelings across oceans and vast lands—a call for the other man. Yuuri doesn’t know if Viktor is watching him, far away in his Russian hotel room, but he hopes he is. Wants to be sure that the powerful feeling of a captivated audience isn’t just the crowded rink around him.

The music dies down to its end; his final position tilted back, as if in the arms of a lover. The cheering is wild, the gifts scattered across the ice plentiful, and Yuuri’s heartbeat drumming in his ears. Yuuri can’t see much beyond the blinding glare of arena lights and ice.

Minako is waiting rinkside with his skate guards and jacket, letting him catch his breath before launching into praises. It’s so at odds with Viktor’s straightforward coaching—listing the problems of the performance, knowing Yuuri can do better—he can’t help but laugh. The kiss and cry is colder than he remembers, but Minako’s happiness and excitement is infectious.

89.8

It’s not record-breaking, and it’s much lower than his score at Barcelona, but it firmly puts him at the head of the group. The cameras around him zoom to see his reaction, but Yuuri tries not to pay them any attention. Ghosting his lips across the bright gold of his ring, Yuuri knows that this is only a temporary victory and that he’s got to work even harder for the free skate in two days. He’s frustrated—knows he can do better, that the program is better. Mentally running through a list of why he hadn’t broken a hundred stacks up and up—the extra servings during family meals, the easy convenience of izakaya food since arriving in Osaka far outside his training diet, his emotional desperation ruining the mood of the performance.

All his inadequacies that need fixing before Worlds.

But he can do it. Has to, for Viktor.

He’s still thinking about it after the interviews are over, his canned answers and the competition fading to background noise as he leaves the rink to hide in his room at the cheap hotel the competitors are staying at. He’s slightly nauseous, and the thick bile at the back of his throat quels any urge he might have to eat. Minako’s voice is somewhat soothing as she talks, but he can’t make out the words.

It’s only once the elevator doors shut, cutting off the noisy hum of the lobby that Minako’s worried “Yuuri?” catches his attention.

“Hmm? Sorry? I was distracted.”

“Are you OK?” his former dance instructor asks. “You’ve been very quiet since the scoring, and your phone has been ringing for a while.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Yuuri’s surprised he had been caught up enough to not realise the vibrating in his pocket—there’s only one person likely trying to get ahold of him, considering his family always wait for him to call first after a competition. Pulling the phone from his pocket, there are half a dozen missed calls from Viktor, and apprehension twists in his stomach at the same time a longing flutter jumpstarts his heart.

“Why has he called so many times?” Clicking through the list, the timestamp of the first indicates it had been received just before he and Minako had left the rink.

Minako lets out an exasperated but fond sigh. “Because he wants to congratulate and encourage you, Yuuri. He’s your coach  _ and _ your fiancé—does he need a better reason to call after such a wonderful program?”

Yuuri knows she’s probably right, but can only hum non-committedly in response to his teacher. “I’ll call him back once I get to my room.”

Somewhat apprehensively, Minako lets him go once they reach their floor.

True to his word, Yuuri returns Viktor’s call as soon as he’s dumped his gear bag in the room’s single chair, slinging his jacket over it as it rings. Just as the third ring ends, the line picks up and Viktor congratulates him in shaky Japanese. The Russian’s voice is light with excitement, and the muffled grumbling of someone in the background means that he’s not alone.

“Sorry if I was interrupting, you just called quite a few times and I-” Yuuri says as he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, slowly unlacing his trainers to give his feet a deserved stretch.

“No, don’t worry, it’s only Yurio,” Viktor replies brightly. “He wanted to watch the Japanese Nationals too, but doesn’t know where to find the best streams like I do,” a teasing lilt to his voice that Yuuri  _ knows _ is accompanying a wink to the teen. A strangled noise of annoyance is all the confirmation he needs.

Yuuri laughs at their antics, and it’s soon joined by Viktor’s. “He’s just leaving now though,” he continues, which inspires some more muffled grumbling that needs no translation before the sharp slam of the door indicates the teen had done just that.

“You didn’t have to make him leave.” Yuuri attempts to chastise his coach, even as he keeps laughing.

A hum and slight shift of sound as Viktor moves around in his Chelyabinsk hotel room.

“But what if I wanted to talk to my beautiful fiancé alone?”

“W-Well-”

Soft and subtle, there’s a mix of love and attentiveness lacing Viktor’s words as he continues. “How are you feeling, Yuuri? Are you happy with your performance today?”

It sounds like a trick question, taunting Yuuri to say something wrong, but he knows that’s just his own self-doubts again, clouding his perception. Although Viktor is always upfront about criticism—sometimes scathingly so—he’d never purposefully twist his words to push Yuuri’s thoughts against him.

“I know I can do better,” Yuuri says. The truth. “I’m not going to relax just because I’m ahead right now.”

There’s a quiet moment where Yuuri is sure Viktor is trying to find the best words to use. It’s a loving consideration he gives him now that they’re together as more than just student and coach—putting thought into his words so that there’s no misunderstandings between them. No more repeats of Barcelona.

“You were lovely as always,  _ Zolotse _ , but I agree it wasn't your best. Your technical elements were dazzling—you really perfected those combinations in the last few weeks—but it seemed like you were far away. Um, what’s the English word? Not focused on the audience?”

“Distracted?”

“Yes. It seemed like you weren’t skating for the people there.”

And how could he have been, when he'd been missing the most important piece of his performance?

“I wasn’t,” Yuuri quietly admits. “I was trying to reach you.”

The hitch in his fiancé’s inhale sounds close, intimate, as it comes down the line—enough to know that Viktor understands. Like he knows how easily he occupies Yuuri’s thoughts, even thousands of miles away.

“You spoil me, Yuuri.”

“Someone has to.” It’s an automatic response—not one he expected would slip out—and Yuuri mentally reels back as he quickly tries to recover his blunder. “I mean—” his brain speeding to find a suitable apology or excuse. Cutting himself off before his traitorous brain could do anything worse.

There’s an audible little muffle down the line in the next second, and Yuuri hyperfocuses to the sound—hearing it ring in his ears even once it’s ended. He releases a hot breath against the receiver, and licks his lips in interest. The mood of their call has changed just like that, and Yuuri’s body is aching for the closeness he had gotten used to with Viktor before their separation. His stomach swoops with anticipation, and even across the distance, the warmth between them burns beneath his skin just from the promise in the Russian’s breathing, the spark of  _ something _ in their conversation.

“You saw me, right Vitya?” His free hand rearranging the pillows the cleaning service had dutifully fluffed. “You saw me skating Eros in front of everyone, just for  _ you _ .”

There’s another whimpered moan that quickly breaks into a muffle as Viktor very obviously covers his mouth from his phone. The hitch in his breathing is a tell-tale sign of arousal that Yuuri has learnt over their time together. Despite this, his coach’s words are steady when he finally replies. 

“Of course I did. You made promises with that program, Yuuri.” Voice matter-of-fact, as if it’s some unshakeable truth. “There’s no possibility I could look away, even if you hadn’t told me to always keep my eyes on you.”

And isn’t that a thought? Captivating Viktor Nikiforov the same way Yuuri had been, over a decade ago. Being the focus of someone else’s life, attentions and desires.

Yuuri’s training pants shift lower on his hips as he adjusts himself on the pillows. His fiancé’s words thick with lust as he praises Yuuri’s step sequences, spins, the pop of his hip—all the things he had hoped to be noticed—in how exacting and expectant Yuuri is in demanding Viktor’s attention with his body. Successful in seducing the only person who mattered. Restless fingers brush against the growing tent in his pants as he loosely cups himself through the fabric. It gives almost no satisfaction or relief, but it’s enough as he listens to the Russian’s praise.

“Viktor, I want…” Yuuri interrupts before too long. His voice is thick and breathing heavy thanks to the power Viktor’s words have on him, and his own imagination—able to clearly imagine the pale skin and dense muscles. The rosy flush spreading down like pink ink from the tips of his ears and nose, to across plush pectorals, to the sensitive curve of his cock.

“Yuuri?”

“I want to touch you. I want you to touch me,” rocking into the curve of his hand around his erection—not quite ready to dart his hand down past the elastic waistband. Squeezing again when Viktor gives an enthusiastic noise of agreement. “To make you feel good, Vitya.

“Yes,” a sigh of adoration and attraction from the phone. “Please, Yuuri. I’m already-” a hitch of breath as Viktor obviously reacts.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” finally rolling down and kicking off his pants to expose himself to the cold air of his hotel room. His underwear is still in place, but obviously straining, waiting for more. Yuuri feels stifled in the shirt he’s still wearing, and it clings to his chest thanks to the sweat on his skin despite his post-program shower. Pulling it off, it joins his pants on the floor.

There’s a slurred, incomprehensible mix of a moan and Russian, before Viktor replies. “I want you inside me,  _ Miliy _ ,” his phone close enough to his mouth that Yuuri’s able to hear the quiet desperation and smacking of lips. “I have two fingers inside already.”

God, Yuuri can't even pretend to be in control when Viktor calls, seduces, so wantonly.

“Will you be okay to skate tomorrow—?” Yuuri starts, but is cut off by another enthusiastic moan vibrating from his fiancé. It breaks his hesitation and pulls him down into the desperation and  _ need _ .

Gripping his own cock, Yuuri slowly,  _ finally _ , starts to give himself some relief to the enthusiastic noises Viktor is making. Adjusting the circle of his hand as he tightens and loosens rhythmically against his erection when the Russian insists, “This won’t—don’t worry, Yuuri. This won’t affect my skating.”

Yuuri’s not sure whether to believe Viktor’s judgement in this moment—priorities already muddled by the urgency of lust and physical satiation—but he decides to trust that the older skater knows his body’s limits. Unsure if he has any lube in the bags he packed for Nationals, and knowing that even if there’s a stray sachet somewhere in his gear bag left over from the Grand Prix, he’s not willing to go over and hunt for it now, Yuuri gives himself a rough stroke before purposefully spitting in his hand and setting a steady pace to match Viktor’s panting. Freeing his cock as the elasticised fabric of his underwear shifts to strain across his thighs. A ragged breath escapes at the feeling as he works down the shaft—foreskin pulled back enough to expose the sensitive glans to the cool air of the room—making it obvious to what he’s doing.

Yuuri has only ever given Viktor a prostate massage once—four fingers slicked up and focused in a cheap Hasetsu love hotel, reunited after Rostelecom—but the same type of uninhibited moans the Russian is making now are still familiar. He had pulled four orgasms out of the other man that day; and the memory of Viktor, beautifully debauched across tacky sheets, has Yuuri’s hips hitching to meet the downstroke of his fist.

“Are you ready for me, Vitya?” he manages to say after another minute. It’s a struggle to remember that they’re not in the same room like this—Viktor’s willing noises from the phone cradled right by his ear. Lingering memories of warm skin and burning muscles fueling the fantasy. Yuuri can almost feel Viktor’s hot breath across his neck; biting his bottom lip again on another downstroke.

“Yes, yes—ah,  _ yes, Yuuri! _ ” Viktor cries enthusiastically—his voice crackling a little on the line at his high volume—encouraging Yuuri even more. His imagination has Viktor spread before him, open and eager; Yuuri spilling praise into his phone as Viktor continues to finger himself, ready. He wishes he could kiss him wetly—to suck on his coach’s tongue deep and dirty as he slowly pushes in—to swallow down the sweet sounds he makes. Pumping in mimicry to the measured push in, running a thumb across the sensitive tip. He shudders another moan as he fists his cock tight and slow.

“You feel so good. Always feel so good.”

“Yuuri, more.” A shaky exhale as Viktor seems to collect himself from the edge of desperation he had hit. “Seduce me more.”

Yuuri can’t help huff a laugh, warmth blooming in his heart knowing all of his feelings on the ice were clear to the person he was sending them to—even as his his cock twitches, demanding attention. “Of course, Vitya.”

A hand moves lightly across his thighs as he talks the Russian through all the things he wants to touch, taste, kiss. Encouraging Viktor to hit his peak, chanting Yuuri’s name like a prayer once he does. A messy mix of incomprehensible Russian spilling as his fiancé comes hard and noisily down the phone. Yuuri takes that as his cue to focus on his own erection—balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear as he tries to use both hands. It’s with a rough grip on his cock, glancing touches along his balls and Viktor’s post-orgasmic words thick with love and uncontrolled accent that Yuuri finally spurts hot over his stomach and chest.

There’s a different sort of intimacy to phone sex—having just the other’s words and sounds in the moment—but it’s nothing compared to actually having Viktor beside him. Curling into each other between the sheets, tangling their legs when fully sated. In the come-down from the orgasmic haze, Yuuri misses the barely-there kisses Viktor usually runs along his shoulder blades; misses the feeling of soft silver hair, petting through it when his fiancé clings.

_ I miss you _ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. “I love you,” he says instead. The urge to reach across the miles rises up again and he holds the nearest pillow to him in an attempt to appease it, disregarding the cooling mess he’d left across his abdomen. Viktor replies in Russian—the word for love interspersed with Yuuri’s name and a dozen other things he couldn’t hope to translate—the relaxed tone of his voice beautiful and lyrical, subtly lower in his native language. The afterglow fades faster than he had hoped, and Yuuri can’t stop himself from thinking back on the competition and his scoring; scrunching up his face in an attempt to postpone it for when he isn’t talking with Viktor. The taunting reality of the 89.8 scoring curdling in his gut—not high enough to even hope about beating Viktor or Yuri or the dozen other skaters vying for gold at Worlds.

He tries to distract himself with the other man instead of dwelling, smiling as he whispers. “I’ll be cheering you on tomorrow.” It’s a happy convenience that the time difference and scheduling means that their competing times don’t clash, and that Yuuri will be able to witness Viktor’s return to the ice firsthand after the half-season away. “I can’t wait to see your programs.”

“I’ll be sure to do my best then,” Viktor says, humoured, “knowing my number one fan is watching.”

It’s no secret between them that Yuuri has followed Viktor’s career religiously since the sixth grade, but it’s still surreal having it acknowledged. Any past embarrassment on his obsession has faded with the time and familiarity he now has with Viktor, slowly being replaced with the realisation that his fiancé has accepted that part of him too. That his years of idolisation have been fully embraced by the Russian, along with all the anxiety, stubbornness and self-deprecation Yuuri also embodies. There’s comfort knowing that Viktor has already seen his flaws and weaknesses—had witnessed them so often since the first night they met—but still fell in love with him anyway.

It’s that reality—the promise of the ring around his finger—that’s pushing him to do and to be better. To push himself past the expectations of judges and fellow skaters into an undeniably-earned spot beside Viktor; to surprise the world with the things he’s capable of. Which is why he’s going to fit in as much ice time as possible around scheduled practices and the Russian Nationals tomorrow, and why he’s going to take a jog tonight through Osaka’s underground, protected from the bitter winter weather, to burn through the lingering heaviness weighing down both his body and his mind.

If he can land the flip cleanly, it'll all be worth it. If he manages the quad axel, they'll always be together

He’s going to be better, and surprise everyone.

 

*

 

Viktor messaged him a link to the competition streams that morning; a sweet surprise that saves Yuuri a solid 45 minutes digging around Russian-language websites with coding older than Makkachin in search of the day’s figure skating coverage.

There’s an excited buzz in the lead up. No one knows what to expect for Viktor’s return—whether he’ll crash under the pressure of hurried programmes and missing practices, or if he’ll yet again claim a national gold, unbeatable. Yuuri feels it in his blood, ringing through him as he listens to the commentators speculating in a language he doesn’t understand, Minako sat beside him in upbeat anticipation for the competition to start. 

Just a moment later, it’s almost impossible to hear the commentators over the overwhelming screams of the crowd when Viktor steps onto the ice alongside the other skaters in his group. The wall of sound is all-consuming and overbearing even from the other side of the screen, and Yuuri can’t even imagine the pressure that must be filling the rink in Chelyabinsk. The stream’s camera zooms to focus on the left side of the rink, capturing the smiles and waves of each competitor as they circle the ice for the warm up. Signs litter the crowd already, most adorned with  Виктор and the Russian flag, and Yuuri smiles as his fiancé waves back to the crowd just as heartily.

There are three skaters before Viktor’s turn, and Yuuri watches them with an anticipatory restlessness—trying but failing to focus on the competition as more and more time passes. There’s a lurking fear that if things don’t work out—if three weeks isn’t enough for Viktor to return and something terrible happens—it will all be Yuuri’s fault; his selfishness keeping Viktor as a coach and then demanding his fiancé start skating again. His mind is a war of conflicting hope and dread, whispering encouragement as he wrings his hands.

When his turn arrives, Viktor takes place in center ice—upright and anticipatory; the whole world holding their breath for the music to start.

[ The piano starts quiet ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CT1lSHzG4Vs) , and Yuuri is mesmerised watching the graceful movements of the Russian. The guitar joins soon after, and the strings swell. There are glimmers of Yuuri’s music scattered throughout, and there’s clear intention in it. The skate is almost as subdued as the music—definitely a surprising difference from the expected grand return—and it’s obvious that Viktor has taken the opportunity to hone his step sequences and spins into a organic flow to match the music, rather than push points with the jumps. The deep mulberry of the costume flutters with a gentle sway with each movement, and the dark beading down the sides and across the chest catch light under every new angle.

There’s a soft longing to how he reaches across the ice—arms outstretched like he’s dancing with an absent partner, like an echoed encore of their Stammi Vicino exhibition skate. He wobbles a little landing the second part of his combination, but the ease with which he transitions to the next element hides it well—only judges and hyper-critical fans would even notice it. It’s not like Viktor has ever lacked on the PCS side of routines before, but the emphasis has always been on the technical elements. This though, this is heavy and raw and a beautiful force of emotion. A quad flip transitioning to deft footwork to an Ina Bauer.

As the music finally fades with Viktor’s last component, there’s a half-second of silence before the crowd erupts. Gifts flood the rink in audience support, and the Russian commentators are speaking so fast, Yuuri’s not sure even native speakers would be able to keep up. Minako is yelling too as she shakes Yuuri excitedly, her strong grip sure in how it holds him tight. For what it’s worth, Yuuri doesn’t even blink as his fiancé sends another pleased wave to the crowd before picking up a plush poodle lying amongst the myriad of colourful roses. The camera angle changes as the stream switches to the Kiss and Cry, and it looks like Yakov’s berating and criticisms are falling on deaf ears as Viktor waits for his score. Once the numbers flash up, they’re lower than they’ve been in the past three years, but Yuuri can’t see any disappointment regardless. From the tone of the commentary and the enthusiastic cheering of the crowd it doesn’t seem like anyone found the performance lack-luster, and Yuuri can finally breathe again—heart racing and overwhelming pride filling his chest as the love of his life returns triumphantly to the ice, like Yuuri had always believed he could.

 

*

 

A few of the interviewers had asked him about Viktor’s performance the day before, and whether Yuuri was nervous about such an accomplished skater returning for Worlds. (Especially one who knew so much about his own routines in his duty as Yuuri’s coach, they implied but never said). There’s nothing more exciting than competing with others who love the sport just as much as he does, Yuuri had replied, before redirecting the attention back to Nationals and the other Japanese Senior skaters. Another had asked if he knew the reasoning behind Viktor’s theme— _ Life and Love _ —being so similar to his own, but Yuuri had just reasoned that the strongest emotions gave the best inspiration before excusing himself for his warmups.

He feels weightless throughout the entirety of  _ Yuri on Ice _ , like he  _ knows _ he’s answering the call Viktor is sending him. The seconds slip seamlessly as he moves across the ice, and the rise of the piano lift his quads until it feels like he’s floating. The amount of times he struggled and pushed through his jumps over the past months, weeks, are worth it for this moment—where his body works exactly as he hoped, beautiful and graceful and light.

He doesn’t cry when it’s over even though it feels like the perfect time to, or when his hand reaches for someone he knows isn’t there. Not even in the Kiss and Cry when his score confirms his gold, or atop the podium when he’s smiling to the sea of flashing cameras. The weight of the medal around his neck keeps him tethered, even as pride burns like a sun in his chest and motivation fires up his spirit. He’s rightfully regained his spot as Japan’s Ace, and the crowds of enthusiastic fans feel well-deserved for once.

_ “We’re getting married once Yuuri wins gold” _ , the memory clear as day running through his head as he packs up his things from the changing rooms. A gold from Nationals isn’t the type Viktor had meant, of course, but he’s inching closer to reaching his coach through all of his extra work and training.

He’s going to win a gold good enough for Viktor—his body is finally cooperating in the way he wants—but he has to be careful in the next months until Four Continents and Worlds. He needs to remember the feeling he has right now; to perfect the programs Viktor had given him, in order to beat him.

The rink’s gym is empty when he arrives—having successfully encouraged Minako to go to the hotel without him, the other competitors wrapped up in coaches and interviews—so he cues up his music and dances his routine out again and again until he’s pouring sweat and burning with the happy ache of achievement. The euphoria of his recent win pushes him into one more, one more, one more, and the repetition is comfortable despite his muscles and feet aching with satisfaction. He’ll see if there’s any free ice time he can get to work on his quads.

He’s doing it. This way he can make his dreams come true.

 

*

 

Minako invites herself into his hotel room once again without warning. Yuuri, treating the newest blisters at the arch of his foot, jumps with a squawk at her sudden appearance—pulling on his socks as his mentor plops herself beside him.

“I’m surprised you don’t have the streams up.” she says, looking at his dormant laptop left on the room’s small table. “Considering that you didn’t join me for lunch.”

Yuuri shrugs non-committedly—he had taken the opportunity to jog around Osaka’s underground again instead of filling himself with warm soba, but he knows Minako wouldn’t approve. She had been enthusiastic about him taking a rest before the evening’s exhibition skate, but Yuuri’s focused on a point beyond that already. The excitement of Viktor’s free skate debut is just another reason why he couldn’t sit still, and he had hardly noticed the time pass in his distraction.

“Have you eaten?” she continues, unpacking a plastic carry bag from the downstairs Lawson’s. He nods, but she gives him a box of the delicious-smelling fried chicken anyway—a bottle of green tea next to be passed over. The warm steam from the food smells heavenly, and it’s been forever since Yuuri has had the chain’s signature  _ honetsuki _ . It’s not a good choice, diet-wise, but his traitorous stomach growls against the emptiness—the last meal he had a memory of yesterday.

Minako doesn’t wait for an answer after she hears the rumble of his stomach; squeezing his shoulder with an urging of “eat.” He’s almost certain she’s attributing it to his nervousness on Viktor’s upcoming performance. Yuuri doesn’t correct her.

The fried chicken is just as good as he remembers, and the mix of spices and tender meat are satisfying. For the five minutes he eats it all he doesn’t even mentally calculate the carbohydrates, calories, fat; just savouring the taste. Before he even realises, there are only bones left amongst the greasy paper packaging and Minako is savouring her own serve—onigiri still poking out from the plastic bag. He fights the sudden urge to swallow both of them too to fill the yawning emptiness of his body.

Brushing his fingers against the thin napkin provided to get rid of the last of the oily feel, Yuuri shuffles his trash to the bag instead—Minako receiving both rice balls in her one free hand when he pulls them out. Once he’s cleaned up he reaches for the laptop. Clicking onto the same site he had streamed from two days before. The noise of the Russian crowd cheering once the stream connects bursts from his speakers, and he scrambles to lower the volume. There’s still time before the programs start, but the camera switches from the empty ice to watching the top group with their coaches behind the scenes. Predictably, Yakov has all three of his Men’s Seniors finalists at various points in the room focusing on their own performances, but close enough to grab their attention immediately if needed. Georgi is at one wall, loosening his hips; Yuri talking with Lilia as she adjusts his posture and hand positions. Viktor, probably the closest distance to the aging coach but paying the least attention, slowly steps through elements. Yuuri can see the flash of gold on his fiancé’s hand as he turns abruptly, arms moving to some silent song, and he twists his own around his ring finger; the gold band spinning easily. It’s become a nervous habit over the past few days, as much as it is an assurance.

The competition is fierce as expected. Last year’s bronze medalist, Semyon Orlov, two-foots the landing on his quad loop but otherwise gives a strong program. Yuuri bites his lip in both excitement and nerves when Yuri takes the ice, poised and graceful—just as Yuuri remembers  _ Allegro Appassionato _ from the GPF. The teen seems sharper on his spins compared to Barcelona, and it’s easy to see that the younger boy hasn’t taken his recent gold for granted. The commentators talk animatedly in the interim between each athlete, causing Yuuri even more stress in the buildup to Viktor’s turn.

He’s never been this anticipatory or nervous for a skate—even one of his own, waiting rinkside for his turn to be judged by the world on his performance. Even during that terrible showing in Sochi: exhausted both mentally and physically, his own failure against the cloying comfort of excessively salted and chemically preserved snack foods. Others in the group skate with little to catch the attention. As the clock ticks closer, it’s clear that the crowd is waiting for only one athlete tonight.

The cheap speakers in Yuuri’s laptop get blown out again the moment his fiancé takes to the ice. A wall of sound coming from every direction as the crowd sends their support, overwhelming and absolute. For all the fanfare, Viktor seems to ignore it all—glare of the rink lights and ice making the black of his pants, the white of his shirt, contrast even more. The simple choice of costume is so far removed from anything Viktor has worn for a program before, Yuuri is immediately drawn to wonder why it seems so familiar.

He isn’t given too much time to consider the possibilities before a hush falls over the audience and the first notes drift from the speaker.

[ There’s no question to why Viktor chose this music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BkmAqn-aBmI) —a direct call to Yuuri and their relationship. No hidden meanings or skewed perspectives or misunderstood intentions. It’s direct, full of the feelings they’ve cultivated together over the past year, and Yuuri can’t even take a breath lest he break the magic. There’s no grand swell to the song—a single vocalist and piano that makes it all the more beautiful and powerful in its attempts to explain the feelings roiling in Yuuri’s heart. The love between two people that needs no name, no form, to grow and thrive. As a program for Viktor, it’s shocking in how obvious the emotion is—no coy flirting or skirting implications—unable to be misinterpreted by anyone watching.

It suddenly hits Yuuri as to why the costume seems so familiar to him now: it’s a perfect copy to the suit Viktor is wearing in the dozens of snapshots from the Sochi banquet. Of the night Yuuri has no memory of, but where he had captured the heart and attention of the man he loves most in the world.

Every movement, every footstep is done with purpose, and Viktor’s expression is softly smiling, as if on the verge of tears. 3500 miles away, Yuuri bursts into his own sobs at the first chorus—laughing through the crying and clutching his chest tight even as he focuses on each element Viktor is skating. Yuuri has always been singularly focused on the Russian man’s programs, but this time it feels different. It feels like a promise for just Yuuri. Viktor declaring to the world the story of their everything—the past, the present, the future.

The last few seconds of the program have the music fading out and the sparkle of gold as the rink lights hit the hand Viktor has outstretched, reaching for just one person. Handsome face wet with obvious tears, Yuuri has to stop himself from reaching out for the other man too—if he was with him, rather than halfway across the world, Yuuri wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from launching into a kiss from the rinkside in a mirrored attempt of the scandal in Beijing; the two of them back on the frontpage of every sports paper after that program.

He loves him, he loves him,  _ he  _ **_loves_ ** _ him. _

Pressing a fingertip against his lips, he kisses it before moving to touch Viktor’s face on the screen. The other man still crying even as he waves to the crowd triumphantly. Russia is welcoming back their hero—if the short program had left any doubts about his return, they had been dispelled in the past 4 minutes 30 seconds. Every shot to the crowd is filled with fans weeping openly into their banners and flags—and Yuuri has to bite his own lip to keep himself from crying any harder, even as Minako is shameless as her own tears flow freely.

It wasn’t a record-breaking program, and like the short, it didn’t push the elements past anything he had done before, but the PCS was guaranteed to be high—perhaps even high enough to push through to the podium. Regardless, Viktor Nikiforov was back, and ready to tell the world his new story.

Yuuri still can’t quite believe that  _ he’s _ that story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the newest chapter: Nationals feat. phone sex.
> 
> It took me far longer than I care to admit trying to choose music for Viktor's programs--they had to be perfect for the emotions I wanted, and hopefully I was successful. Unfortunately, they don't actually fit the regulated length needed for ice skating programs, but just chalk that up to artistic license (and maybe assume a longer arrangement).
> 
> Thank you everyone who left a comment on the last chapter! I read and cherish every single one❤
> 
> As probably everyone is aware, Tumblr has been self-imploding thanks to the changes being implemented on the 17th. I'm sure no one follows my long-dormant [Tumblr](https://geewritesstuff.tumblr.com/) account, but for anyone interested I also have a [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) where I post updates on my writing and other fandom-y things.


	3. Chapter 3

The thrill as he sits in the back seat of the taxi, Makkachin licking his fingers where he’s poking them through the gaps in her crate at his feet, is almost enough to keep the anxious buzz of nerves away. The driver had attempted to chat with him after giving him the address Yakov had provided, but Yuuri’s obvious quiet is enough to kill whatever prospective conversation that could be had, and the rest of the ride is only interrupted by the noise of Saint Petersburg traffic.

Yuuri can’t draw his eyes away from the city outside—it’s his first time in Saint Petersburg, and the historic buildings curling around the Neva river are like from a different world compared to the sleepy traditional houses in Hasetsu. The sun hasn’t risen yet, so the myriad of lights bounce and glitter off whatever can catch the light, and frost curls against the glass of the taxi’s windows.

The apartment building they finally stop in front of is nice in an older, understated way. The heavy overhead clouds drizzle unhappily as his luggage is unpacked onto the sidewalks, and the crunch of snow and frost covers the small frontage of his new home. From the building, a portly man steps out, and Makkachin barks in recognition from where she’s still confined.

He speaks to the dog once she barks again, his voice deep and gruff, before turning towards Yuuri who had just finished paying the taxi driver.

“Pyotr Ivanovich,” he says in introduction, nodding to Yuuri as he gives his own name. “You are here for Viktor Mikhaylovich,” he continues once Yuuri is done, the thickly accented English direct and to the point. A statement, not a question.

“Yakov call me and explain,” he says after a beat. Yuuri mentally thanks the coach for the foresight, meaning that he wouldn’t have to muddle his way with an explanation on why he wanted access to the Olympian’s apartment with his piecemeal Russian. Nodding, he thanks the man before him, who lifts two of Yuuri’s bags from the pavement with no problem.

Freeing Makkachin from her travel crate finally, she bounds out to sniff around and relieve herself from the long flight. Yuuri hated her being cramped for so long, but she looks energetic and happy enough now as she re-familiarises herself with her old home.

Whistling for her to follow, Yuuri pulls up the rest of his bags and the crate to where the lobby door is open, and warm yellow light glows inside. Pyotr follows close behind, keeping the largest of Yuuri’s bags from dragging in the soggy snow covering the footpath. Makka’s toenails click across the marble floors, and the entry is several degrees warmer than the biting cold of the Russian mid-morning. Two elevators are recessed into one wall, but only one is an obvious upgrade from whatever had been in the space before, the other’s doors far older.

Without a word, the (assumed) landlord pushes the call button, letting Yuuri and the poodle step into the small space before packing in three bags and himself in too. Yuuri’s only half-surprised that the elevator doesn’t buzz with an overweight limit warning, considering how much he had tried to pack into each suitcase, but the gruff Russian accompanying him seems unconcerned either way.

Victor’s apartment is on the fifteenth floor, and they don’t see a single other soul in the time it takes for the key to be fished out, and Yuuri to cross the threshold into his new home.

Makka barrels ahead, knowing exactly where she is, looking for her owner. Viktor has long-left for the rink, only his house slippers sat patiently for his return at the entrance. Toeing off his own shoes to wait near the door, Yuuri walks further into the apartment in just his socks—Pyotr having left the door ajar with the luggage he had been ferrying to collect the rest of the bags still waiting downstairs.

After the entryway, Viktor’s apartment opens up into a spacious open-plan living area, with the kitchen and dining area attached on one side. Yuuri had seen it once before, in 2013’s ‘at-home sit-down’ interview Sports Illustrated had done, but the photographs of the magazine-perfect apartment seem sterile now after seeing the real thing. Small signs of life are littered throughout the apartment—a mug sitting in the drainer next to the sink, the coffee table buried under dozens of letters, a bath towel draped over the back of one of the dining chairs. Excitement thrills in Yuuri’s chest as he sees it all; his new home for the prospective future.

Once all the bags have been brought up, and Pyotr fishes out a key for Yuuri, he’s finally left alone. Makkachin is finally worn out from her excited scurrying around the apartment and he finds her curled up in a plush dog bed in the bedroom, one of Viktor’s socks suspiciously hanging off of one side.

There are several hours before Viktor is due home, but Yuuri has plans on surprising his fiancé—imagining the look of shock, of happiness, when he arrives at the Ice Palace stops any second-guessing he might otherwise be fretting over.

 

*

 

Yuuri is halfway through deciding between whether to wear his sports jacket he usually takes to the rink, or the heavy wool coat he had brought to Barcelona when he hears it. Makkachin, refreshed from her snooze, bounds out from the bedroom, and it’s only when he sees her mad dash to the front door does he realise that someone is unlocking it. Yuuri freezes stock-still, panicked and unsure what to do if it’s Viktor. Or, even worse, if it _isn’t_ Viktor.

“M-Makka?” a familiar voice questions as the door is opened; followed by a fast string of Russian that gets abruptly cut off. Hurried footsteps bound from the entrance to the larger living area, ignoring the thud of the front door closing, and Yuuri stays stuck in place as he sheepishly greets his fiancé with a “Welcome home.”

The surprise on Viktor’s face is even better than Yuuri could have imagined, but he only has a second to savour it before the Russian has his arms around him, hugging him close.

“You’re here; you’re actually…” his voice muffled by how closely he clings, mouth directed to the junction between neck and shoulder where he could nuzzle closer—lips trailing a soft path up his neck until finally he pulls back, just to swoop in for a kiss. Yuuri melts, warm tongue languidly and lovingly pulling him deeper. _Viktor_ is alight in all five of his senses, and they kiss each other as if their separation had stretched for years, rather than the few weeks of reality.

Yuuri sags in relief, happiness and reassurance and love filling him from the toes up. He tilts his head to avoid brushing the rim of his glasses against Viktor’s nose, and the anxiety and doubts scatter from his mind.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he admits sheepishly. “And. And I didn’t want to wait anymore. I missed you.”

Both arms around him tight, Viktor lifts Yuuri enough that his feet can’t brush the floor—an echo of their shared exhibition skate in Barcelona, being lifted from the ice in a flush of excitement and rink lights—and spins them both around the room as he laughs in delight. Blue eyes big, with just a hint of wetness. His smile is so wide and joyful, Yuuri can’t help but respond in kind, grinning so hard that the few of his own tears that had bubbled up escape the corners of his eyes, freed from the uneasiness of what-ifs.

“You’re amazing, Yuuri. This is the greatest surprise I’ve ever had—my beautiful fiancé flying across the world secretly to be with me.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Yuuri teases back with a snicker, and Viktor’s entire body seems to react, alight in happiness, at the sound.

“How did you get in?”

“Coach Yakov helped and contacted the landlord for me. I need to thank him.”

If Viktor is shocked by his old coach’s consideration, he hides it well under the thick aura of adoration he’s directing towards Yuuri.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to when we go to the rink tomorrow.”

_Speaking of practice…_

“You’re home early though. I thought you had rink time until 4.”

Viktor shrugs one shoulder non-committedly. “Yakov gave me the afternoon off to rest,” he explains. “I thought it was weird with Europeans so soon, but now I know why.”

There’s a gravity—an irresistible pull towards each other—that draws Yuuri to Viktor. He’s known it from the moment he first saw the ethereal sixteen-year-old carve perfection into the ice from the other side of a television screen. Had followed the siren’s song of the other boy his whole career, admiring from afar the things he most desperately wanted for himself in his skating—grace, power, confidence. The things that Viktor had proven that he already possessed; knowing and trusting and persisting.

Yuuri’s adoration and appreciation for Viktor that had grown and evolved into a love so complete and so obvious that he still wonders if it truly hadn’t existed before their time together.

Strong hands hold him gently around the small of his back, as if he’s precious and worth treasuring. As if Viktor’s the lucky one in this relationship, being with Yuuri.

He kisses Yuuri again, and again, and again; kissing him until Yuuri’s core tingles with warmth and his mouth is sensitive to the gentle push and press of his fiancé’s tongue. Lips plush as he draws him closer, deeper, with a hand to the back of his nape.

Yuuri is lifted again, higher, enough to wrap his legs around Viktor’s hips; being carried like he isn’t a full-grown man. The Russian’s hands now lower, skimming Yuuri’s thighs before finding the plush of his ass. Squeezing with a wanting sound.

“Bedroom?”

“Please.”

The distance to the bedroom is short, but Yuuri can still feel the time pass with the rapid pace of his heart.

“I must have gotten stronger; you’re so easy to lift now,” Viktor says, awed at the difference a few weeks can make.

Yuuri has no response to that, just pulling Viktor down with him once they reach the soft sheets of the bed; legs still locked around his fiancé’s hips as they tumble. On top of him, Yuuri can feel the beginnings of hard interest from the Russian. Arching his back to press further against his partner when Viktor shifts to lift his full weight off of Yuuri; hips to chest touching as their limbs entangle. Chasing the feeling of the other man—grounded in the feeling of being _here_ in the now, together, without the looming threats of competition and medals and promises. Revelling in the excitement of being in Saint Petersburg. This next point of their life together.

Just Yuuri and Viktor.

_Zolotse_ and Vitya.

Two people reunited.

A hand moves to unbutton the front of the cardigan Yuuri’s wearing, as Yuuri quickly pulls off the well-worn practice shirt Viktor has on. Fingers course trails along the body before him, and Yuuri nips at a collarbone, a pectoral, a nipple, reacquainting himself with the taste of skin and feel of muscle from his love after being apart for so long. Silver hair hangs beautifully above him from where Viktor leans towards him; his gaze heavy and hot and needy as he watches Yuuri’s every move and expression. Lips interlocked in another kiss, it’s only after they’re both panting hard that Viktor withdraws to run his hands along Yuuri’s thighs, allowing Yuuri room enough to pull his own shirt off too. He’s hard in his pants, and the loving touches Viktor gives is encouraging enough that Yuuri shimmies out of them as quickly as possible—lying bare beneath the other man, exposed. Like this, all of Yuuri’s physical flaws are on display, but the heat in blue eyes stops him from focusing on his own insecurities. Caught in Viktor’s attentions in bed like this, Yuuri feels beautiful despite the myriad of bruises on his hips from hitting the ice, the lacework of stretch marks etched into his skin from past sins, and the ugly paunch of his belly fat. The scrutiny of the media and the demands of the rink and his own standards for himself fall away. Viktor moves once his own pants are gone; warm lips and wet tongue tracing the myriad of silvered stretch marks across his hip bones, lower stomach, inner thighs. Breath brushing like a whisper as he sucks a mark into Yuuri’s skin, spilling words of love in Russian that need no translation to understand. Yuuri tries his best to not reactively squeeze his legs together against the touch and attention, but the pleased gasp from his fiancé as he’s trapped between Yuuri’s thighs rushes in his blood. In encouragement, Viktor presses them even closer with both hands, creating an even tighter crush.

Light eyelashes flutter as blue eyes slide shut, humming in contentment as he noses around the base of Yuuri’s cock; the warmth of Viktor’s mouth promisingly close.

Fingers skim teasingly to the pucker of his ass once Yuuri’s head is spinning in arousal; a small inhale of surprise from his fiancé when he finds Yuuri slick and open, prepared. Blue eyes opening again, flicking his gaze up to Yuuri’s face, happy but surprised. Distracted from his ministrations.

“I took my time in the shower before you got home,” Yuuri admits. Flushing at the memories of earlier in the day—lube helping him finger himself easily in the steam of Viktor’s shower after scrubbing the long flight and weeks of loneliness from himself. The thrill of it, touching himself so intimately in Viktor’s space, had made him edgy and eager for it. Cleaning himself as deeply as possible, hopeful that they would end up in their current situation once Yuuri had surprised the other skater. Once they had reunited, in body and heart.

Viktor bites his bottom lip in interest, gaze heavy with the implication, and surely imagining it.

“I wish I could have joined you.”

“After,” Yuuri promises. “But I didn’t want to wait, Vitya. I need you.”

Pupils wide from where the Russian is wedged between his legs, there’s obvious desire burning as he smiles—moving back to where he had been sucking rosy patches into sensitive skin.

“Me too,” Viktor says, kissing the juncture between hip and thigh. From his vantage point, Yuuri can see how pink the tips of his fiancé’s ears are. A blush to match his own, Yuuri runs his fingers through Viktor’s hair—a loving touch, soft and adoring. The other man leans into his hand, and Yuuri’s missed these moments more than anything. How easy it is to fall into love and wonder during the quiet time they share. An intimate understanding of each other outside of the physical.

It only takes another minute before Viktor’s interest returns to Yuuri’s obvious arousal and his earlier movements, shifting his attention to his ass. Sitting upright, the Russian adjusts his hold on Yuuri’s hips to lift his lower half off the bed; back curving as he’s being bent in two—flexible enough to fold his body to give Viktor better access, legs pushed to his shoulders. A pillow finds its way beneath his lower back, and the stretch of his body is familiarly comfortable. Viktor runs his hands down Yuuri’s thighs again, reverent, before shifting to a lower position. Kissing one of the darkening spots he had trailed down Yuuri’s thigh earlier, it’s a fleeting moment before the Russian’s attention is focused to one point. Tongue licking flatly against his opening before Viktor enthusiastically pushes in with a growl, Yuuri barely has a moment to suck in his inhale before he breaks into a moan. Lips suction around his rim, the slide of saliva joining the wetness of the lube as he’s shallowly being penetrated. It’s been so long since they’ve had physical sex, been able to touch each other so intimately, that Yuuri’s seeing hazy dizziness already. Already willing to shatter into stars under Viktor’s attentions and talented tongue alone.

Breath catching in his throat, his words are snatches of desire as he calls out. The broken cries of _Vitya_ spurring on the other man as he continues to open Yuuri up with his mouth. Teasing at sensation when Yuuri feels his need building for _more, more,_ _more._

“Vik-Viktor, _please,_ ” he pants out once his fiancé has shifted his focus from pushing in his tongue to sucking the muscle of his opening again. “Please, I need you.”

Two fingers slide in aside the tongue working him open—searching with focused touches for the sensitive gland inside. Fingertips brushing with purposeful strokes, Yuuri cries out with a broken keen— _so so so so close_. Toes curling, his legs reactively shaking from the feeling. Vibrations run through him where Viktor’s mouth is attached to him as the other man moans, wet and sloppy and squelching with the movements. Yuuri’s cock is standing hard, red and wanting attention; precome dripping across his navel. He’s tempted to stroke himself off for some relief, but he knows he’s going to lose it if he does—and Yuuri will be _damned_ if he ends this before he has Viktor’s cock inside of him. Instead he grabs the closest part of Viktor he can reach from his position, his shoulders, and clutches at them.

With one final suck Viktor pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm, smiling at Yuuri with eyes blown dark in arousal as he sits up. Yuuri relaxes from his position, legs falling either side of Viktor’s hips, as he finally gets a good look at the long erection, pink and hard, that he’s missed for so many weeks.

He wants it inside him now.

To Yuuri’s frustration, Viktor doesn’t push in at all—instead leaning forward before hesitating and withdrawing to step off of the bed. Yuuri grabs his wrist before he can get farther than a half-step away, and pulls him back, questioning softly even as his frustration simmers.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to clean my mouth out. I want to kiss you, but I can’t after that,” he says, apologetic.

Yuuri makes a conflicted noise before letting go in resigned agreement, knowing that he can’t fault Viktor for wanting to be hygienic. Before he lets him leave for the bathroom though, Yuuri beckons him to lean down—kissing the side of his fiancé’s head with a small smack of his lips once he’s close. Carding one hand through the other’s ashy fringe after he’s done, Yuuri smiles with all the _eros_ he can muster.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Vitya.”

The speed that Viktor retreats to the bathroom is comical; stumbling over a pair of pants that they had abandoned on the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment. The rush of water from the tap is loud in the relative quiet of the apartment, and Yuuri muffles a giggle in his hand when he hears a cabinet door being opened and shut harder than necessary. Rearranging himself on the bed as he waits, Yuuri takes the gargle from the ensuite as his cue to lay to one side, looking towards the adjoining door, head propped on one hand. Viktor’s scramble back to the bed is only slightly less frantic than before, and Yuuri laughs as he welcomes him back into his arms, tangling up together again on the sheets.

There’s a buzz of adoration in the way Viktor kisses him, long and unhurried, but Yuuri is sick of teasing touches and being patient. Locking his arms and legs around the man on top of him, he rolls—flipping them over so he’s sitting atop Viktor. The hushed “ _wow”_ is all the encouragement he needs from his fiancé, so Yuuri takes it. Leaning over to grab the lube from the nightstand where he had stored it earlier, he opens it and squeezes out a generous amount into one hand, warming it. Viktor thrusts up eagerly into Yuuri’s slippery grip as he covers his cock in preparation; quiet gasps punctuating the movements and blue eyes dark in anticipation.

The first slide of Viktor’s cock into him as he lowers himself down onto it all at once has Yuuri releasing a deep, satisfied moan—completely filling himself up properly after so much time apart. The stretch of his insides has him sporadically squeezing down on Viktor as he adjusts, and the desperate little jumps of the other’s hips he gets in return zing sweet pleasure up his spine.

He gives himself exactly enough time to ensure that any potential pain has eased into insistent _want_ before he starts moving with reckless abandon, bouncing himself fast and hard with the squelch of lube and the smack of skin. Sweat beads along his back as he rides, and it just feels _so good_ being filled with his fiancé like this—so much more responsive and satisfying than his hand or a toy could ever be. He grinds himself closer, trying to push the unrelenting hardness of Viktor’s cock even deeper into himself, moaning with happiness when he hits his most sensitive spots. The Russian swears at the change in pace, both hands resting on Yuuri’s hips, pulling him down further with each bounce and thrust as his voice spills with love. Yuuri can feel the burning of Viktor’s gaze on his skin, and he smiles at how attentive and aware the other skater is of him. Still looking, never taking his eyes off of him, like Yuuri had asked weeks ago in that Beijing rink, even if his grit teeth betray how close he is to losing it. Yuuri throws his own head back as the angle shifts slightly, and he takes his own cock in hand to chase the peak he’s wanting, excess lube easing the movement.

The desperation he’s feeling keeps his pace rapid—legs shaking in sensitivity as he pounds himself onto Viktor, head thrown back for just that little bit more; English and Japanese and ecstasy all mingling into the broken noises he’s making. His control slipping as he nears breaking point.

He comes with an extended cry of Viktor’s name—his shout petering out to a whine as he keeps himself moving on top of the other man, encouraging him to finally let go too. Pants and whimpers filling the air as Viktor gets close; his perfect hair dishevelled in the most delectable way, blue eyes hazy and still blown out with lust and love as he finds Yuuri’s gaze. The grip he has on Yuuri’s hips tightening even more when Yuuri squeezes down against the cock buried inside of him, Viktor finally spilling with a sob of adoring Russian nonsense.

Yuuri leans forwards to collapse on top of his fiancé, letting the ache of satiation finally settle in his bones as Viktor pulls out. He’s fucked out and happy, floating in the afterglow for the first time since their separation. His glasses got lost at some point in their activities, but he’s close enough to see the sheen of sweat across Viktor’s chest, the pebbling of a nipple, the hint of a blue vein hiding under fair skin. He kisses a collarbone just because he can, and revels in the feeling of _rightness_ this moment has. All the anxiety and stress and potential problems that may arise from his abrupt move to Saint Petersburg are trivial against this—wrapped up in Viktor’s arms, his bed, his heart, like he should be.

Fingers card through his hair as their heartbeats slow.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what?”

“That you’re here right now,” he says, awed. “That you’re not some vivid dream I’m having after hitting the ice too hard after a fall.”

Yuuri swats at him as he lifts his head to look at the other man.

“Don’t even joke about that, Vitya.” Searching his face for any sort of hint that Viktor’s hiding an injury somewhere. Yuuri’s about to sit up to check more thoroughly when he’s stopped by a kiss. One that lingers into another and another. Yuuri lets himself be caught up in the feeling; the curve of a smile against his mouth when they part.

“I’m sorry, _Zolotse_ ; I didn’t mean it that way.”

Huffing, Yuuri wriggles a little closer. He’s sticky and they still need to clean up, but he ignores that in favour of feeling the warmth of Viktor’s body.

“I know you don’t, but it still makes me worry about you.”

Viktor kisses him again—more tongue and lips and depth than the previous. Eyelashes fluttering, an arm curling around his shoulders.

“I’m just so happy. I love you so much, Yuuri.”

“Me too, I love you too.” Smiling softly, hoping it conveys everything he doesn’t know how to say. That Viktor has made Yuuri the luckiest, happiest person in the world.

Viktor beams, blindingly so, and Yuuri pecks a kiss to the tip of his nose, encouraged. In retaliation, Viktor litters his own kisses all over Yuuri’s face—punctuating each with a “love you”—until Yuuri is laughing in joy.

“We need to properly celebrate your arrival.”

Yuuri shakes his head in dismissal, happy to just spend their time together. “You don’t have to do anything special, I’m happy just like this.”

Viktor looks aghast and concerned.

“Of course I do! My fiancé is visiting Saint Petersburg for the first time,” Viktor says with a whine as he wraps his limbs around Yuuri like an overgrown octopus. “We could go out to the nice restaurant on the corner, or—ah!” Viktor cutting himself off mid-sentence as an idea hits him. “I’m going to make you my favourite meal.”

“Huh?”

Yuuri has a faint memory of terrible plane food, but the nerves had squashed any hunger he might have had otherwise. Now, relaxed, he’s acutely aware that his stomach might have growled at the suggestion of food and he blushes, uneasy.

“You’ll love it, I promise.” Viktor continues; grinning wide at his own suggestion and seemingly unaware of Yuuri self-conscious behaviour. Despite his own embarrassment, Yuuri smiles back—genuinely happy at his fiancé’s enthusiasm and earnest want to introduce him to the city he grew up in. Secretly thrilled about learning even more about the Russian—seeing him in his usual routine and everyday life.

“We need to buy groceries first though; I don’t have anything in the fridge. Oh, but, you should stay here and rest if you need to. You had a long flight.”

“I’m OK; I’d prefer to come with you, actually. We can walk Makka, and you can show me around the area before it gets dark again.”

Yuuri rests his head on Viktor’s shoulder, basking in the love he feels, happy to listen to the rumble of the other man’s chest as he lists the various ingredients they’ll need. They’re forced to get up when they realise they still have to clean up before going for groceries, trading kisses between the cursory wipedown before heading to the shower.

Following behind Viktor, Yuuri only stops momentarily at his realisation that he hasn’t had a chance to take his usual daily run. Reassuring himself that today is a special case—one where no practice time, unregulated food and self-indulgent sex is fine—he hurries to the bathroom when the sound of water starts, eager for his second shower of the day.

Tomorrow he’ll get back on track.

 

*

 

The rink is beyond anything Yuuri could have imagined, full of the ringing of blades and the shouting of coaches. He sees an unfamiliar skater launch into a triple lutz, a near-perfect landing easily moving to a step sequence before his coach cut the routine off sharply with a clap—giving instructions before nodding for them to run it again—who blinks a look of shock to Viktor when he notices them, before turning back to the ice. Yuuri can see Yakov to one side of the rink talking with the GPF silver medalist, Mila Babicheva, who’s laughing at whatever the aging man is saying. Holding Yuuri’s hand, Viktor walks them over with a smile—a loud greeting to his coach and rinkmate in Russian. Thankfully for Yuuri, Mila calls her own welcome in English; both Russian skaters ignoring the irritated huff from Yakov at the interruption.

“Yuuri! You’re here early?” Mila’s grin wide, obvious excitement glittering in blue eyes. Taken aback, Yuuri nods with a little hesitation.

“Yes. I thought it would be better to try and adjust to Saint Petersburg sooner rather than later, plus I wanted to try and surprise Viktor,” squeezing his fiancé’s hand with a smile, getting a besotted grin in response. “But how did you know I’m early?”

Mila’s grin turns cheeky as she points to the other Russian.

“As if Viktor talks about anything else. We’ve been hearing about nothing but you since the flight from Barcelona.” The red-head eyeing Viktor in a knowing way, before bundling them both in a hug, taller in her skates. Her small frame belies hidden strength, and Yuuri has to marvel at the high level of performance the FFKKR and Yakov demands for their athletes that the teenage girl could probably throw Yuuri in a pair skate, rather than the other way around. Cementing Yuuri’s determination in getting better, becoming the best, he’s lost in his thoughts at how to adjust his current training schedule. His mind distracted on that, he almost jumps when Mila continues.

“Don’t let him keep you all to himself though, Yuuri,” she says, stepping back from the hug with a bouncy energy. “We need to organise a welcome party with everyone so you feel comfortable joining the family!”

Unsure how to respond properly, Yuuri flounders awkwardly at her proposal as he fumbles to decline—looking to Viktor in askance, even as his fiancé grins and nods to the girl.

“Mila,” Yakov sighs irritably, interrupting the teen before she can start party planning off-the-cuff. “Enough.”

The coach gives her another instruction in gravelly Russian—to huffed annoyance and pleading whines—his stance immovable and face scowling until she gives up her complaints and returns to the ice. Once he’s sure she’s following his orders, he turns his attention back to Viktor and Yuuri.

“You are here for practice?” He’s looking directly at Viktor, but speaking in English. It takes Yuuri a moment before he realises that the language choice is probably for his benefit, and he flushes at the thought of inconveniencing the curmudgeonly Russian coach.

Viktor doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t comment on it, as he replies.

“I’m going to be coaching Yuuri this morning, up until you’ve scheduled me for ice time today. I’m hoping Lilia will have space in her schedule for Yuuri in the afternoons.”

“You will have to ask. You know how high her standards are, and she hates time-wasters,” gruffly folding his arms across his chest as he speaks.

“I don’t think Yuuri has to worry about that,” Viktor says with a wave of his hand. “We’ve all seen how beautifully he dances.”

Yuuri blushes, happy at the praise, as he averts his eyes to study the uneven and worn carpet surrounding the rink. He’s silently thankful for the years of demon-like drills and practice Minako put him through, for it to have gotten Yuuri such a matter-of-fact statement from Viktor. Knowing that his childhood idol and inspiration, fiancé and coach recognises and celebrates the years of hard work Yuuri had committed to ballet over his lifetime is satisfying, thrilling.

“Lilia usually has her classes with Yura in the afternoons. You are not the only one preparing for Europeans, you know.” It’s not a total dismissal, and Viktor seems to latch onto that fact, grinning wide at his coach even as Yuuri is ready to apologise for his less-than-ideal interruption arriving in Saint Petersburg.

“I’ll go organise it then.” Viktor springs up in enthusiasm, like an excitable puppy.

As if planned, Viktor spots someone across the rink and quickly jogs over to speak with them, calling out in Russian as he hurries over, leaving Yuuri behind. Left alone with Viktor’s coach, Yuuri’s not sure what to do. Thankfully, Yakov seems to understand, and softens his frustrated grimace.

“Thank you for all of your help yesterday, Coach Feltsman,” Yuuri says in a rush, bowing low. Eyes low and back straight. “I was able to find Viktor’s apartment with no problems, and I appreciate you explaining the situation to the landlord in my place.”

Yakov gives another exasperated sigh, before tapping on Yuuri’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Stand up straight, boy, there’s no need for you to be acting so meek. You are the newest skater at this rink, and I just did what any proper coach would.” The older man has deep frown lines etched into his skin, but his expression and voice is not unkind. “We’ll have to see whether Viktor’s distraction will be better or worse now that you’re here, but it is better if you can adjust to living in Russia as early as possible.”

Yuuri’s honestly a little shocked, sure that Yakov would want to prioritise the return of Russia’s living legend and his domination of the upcoming competitions over Yuuri’s comfort in his move, but he can’t deny how relieved he feels at Yakov’s words. He hopes he can properly repay the veteran coach somehow in the future.

“And don’t let him distract you either,” Yakov continues as Yuuri blinks at him in surprise. “You need to focus in the lead-up to Worlds.”

“I-I’ll do my best. I don’t intend to lose.”

From where Yuuri’s standing, he can see Viktor laughing with the woman he’s talking with on the other side of the stands—her clothing betraying that she’s part of the office staff, rather than a coach or athlete. He seems to be trying to convince her of something Yuuri can’t even guess, and the woman keeps double-checking her clipboard as the skater keeps pestering the point. Yakov follows his line of sight, and brings one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. His next sigh is heavy in defeat, as if weighed from years of experiencing Viktor’s whims, sure he’ll have to clean up another mess.

“Your coach is a mockery and you deserve better, Katsuki, but if anyone can win gold under that idiot boy’s instruction, it’s you.”

Yuuri doesn’t know how to respond to that.

 

*

 

Lilia Baranovskaya is as sharp as a knife—critical eyes sweeping Yuuri’s form before she pushes him through the standard positions. Under the studio’s lights she seems even harsher; the fluorescents illuminating every angle as she circles around him. Her makeup is better suited for the stage—thickly applied and stark against the paleness of her skin, a lifetime of ballet represented on her face. If Minako had ever been bothered to apply anything more than sunscreen and 100-yen eyeliner in all the years Yuuri’s known her, he’s fairly certain the effect would be the same. Through and through, Lilia Baranovskaya is Bolshoi elite.

Clapping her hands in a measured tempo, it’s muscle memory for Yuuri to hold each for the set beat of time before moving to the next. Minako had relied a lot on the same techniques when she assessed the basics of her dancers, and Yuuri can’t help but lift the corner of his mouth in a smile, nostalgic.

“What do you think?” Viktor asks from the corner he’s occupying, his eyes never leaving Yuuri even as he addresses the former prima.

“Your form has gotten sloppy with contentment,” she says, her words abrupt and to-the-point as she smacks his back in minute correction, “but there is good training here. Who was your teacher?”

“Minako Okukawa, Madame.” Yuuri replies immediately. He’s stood to attention, acutely aware that he’s holding his breath in anticipation. She takes another moment to stretch the silence, before abruptly turning to Viktor.

“My priority is overseeing Yura’s practices, but you’re skater is welcome in the studios if he is not an interruption.”

With a nod she leaves the room with purposeful footsteps, and the amount of relief Yuuri feels once the tension is gone has him wobbly on his legs, falling into Viktor’s arms as the Russian man bombards him with praise and love. Smiling as his arms squeeze a little tighter, Yuuri’s happy that everything seems to be settled without him inadvertently making a mockery of Viktor’s coaching or Minako’s lessons. Happy for the freedom that access to the studios will give him to practice and dance during the long hours of Viktor’s ice time.

He’s just about to mention his fiancé’s practice when the door opens and footsteps stop, a gear bag falling roughly to the floor in shock.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Yuri points to Yuuri accusingly, as if the scene of Viktor and Yuuri tangled in each other’s arms before him is some sort of personal attack. “I thought you were coming after Europeans.”

Yuri has changed in the weeks since Yuuri last saw him in person in Barcelona. His hair is a fraction longer, and he doesn’t slouch his shoulders forwards when he walks—instead standing taller, shoulders set. The jacket he’s wearing hides his upper body, but there’s a fullness to his cheeks that seems out of place compared to the rest of him. Mouth pulled down in a sneer, Yuri clicks his tongue in obvious irritation when he doesn’t receive an immediate answer. Unwavering in his pushiness for a response, he redirects the question.

“Oi. Did you drag him here, old man?”

Viktor, to his credit, keeps himself from a full swoon as he hugs Yuuri tighter. Beaming with happiness at being able to share the story with someone again.

“Yuuri surprised me yesterday in my apartment after practice! He came all the way from Hasetsu so we can start our lives together in Saint Petersburg!” Yuuri thinks it sounds a lot more grandiose and romantic than it was when explained like that, but he can’t find himself wanting to correct his fiancé. The teen looks nauseous.

“Sorry for showing up unannounced, Yurio,” he says instead, smile apologetic, hopeful that the sour mood will shift. It’s unsuccessful, the younger skater bristling immediately instead.

“That’s not my name, asshole,” frown pushing slight brows together as he huffs in annoyance. “You’re in Russia now, so _you_ get the dumb nickname.”

Yuuri can’t help his smile growing, even though it makes the teen even pricklier. He’s missed the younger skater’s fiery energy in the time since the Finals, and his acerbic rudeness still feels more like that of a grumpy child, rather than any real cruel intention. Yuuri shrugs at the idea, not bothered by the idea—curious even, at what might be chosen.

Leaning in with a smirk, Yuri’s proud with whatever he’s come up with—one finger poking hard into Yuuri’s shoulder as he grins wider, green eyes flashing with mirth.

“I know, how about _svínya!_ ” Looking like he’s made the funniest joke in existence. “Perfect, right?”

Viktor doesn’t laugh and agree like Yuuri had expected, instead standing a little straighter as he breaks their embrace; saying Yuri’s name snappishly in a cool tone, a warning of bubbling displeasure that the teen thrills at. Yuuri blinks in confusion as his guts twist from the tension from the room, the language barrier keeping him in the dark.

“What does that mean?”

“Piggy,” Yuri answers before Viktor can, barking a short laugh, clearly taking enjoyment from Viktor’s irritation. Something cold and hard curls in the pit of Yuuri’s stomach, and a flash of the past clouds his vision for the briefest of moments. He feels dizzy and unsure, and for the first time since the day before, Yuuri feels unanchored. Certain that everyone has just been politely ignoring how unsuitable it is for him to be here, pretending to be an athlete worth noticing. Second-guessing whether he has a place here in this part of Viktor’s life.

“O-Oh.”

He had skipped his run yesterday and this morning, and the practice he had had on the ice under Viktor’s supervision ended far before Yuuri had felt the reassuring burn of active muscles. Yuuri’s almost about to apologise again, but before anyone can say anything else, Lilia has returned—snapping at Yuri’s tardiness—with eyes sharp as she assesses the scene.

“What have you done, Yura?”

The teenager tries to deny having done anything, but it’s not long before he folds under the unwavering aura of the ballerina. Yuuri can relate.

Whatever Lilia says to Yuri is in Russian, but from the scowl and her tone of voice, it’s obvious he’s being reprimanded. There’s a red flush of embarrassment and frustration painting Yuri’s skin as he bites back, but it’s obvious that he’s not going to win the argument. He still tries anyway.

“What’s going on?” Yuuri’s question barely a mumble to Viktor.

“Lilia’s telling him to grow up and behave like a champion should, if he wants to be one.”

“Oh.”

“Pretty soon that _wonderful_ attitude of his won’t be excusable to the press anymore, so she’s right. Yura doesn’t want to hear that though.”

Yuuri just nods in understanding, but stays quiet.

“Hey, don’t let what he said get to you, Yuuri; he’s just extra sensitive right now because he’s put on some weight and is having trouble with his jump GOE,” Viktor supplies, and Yuuri doesn’t know if he’s hiding his shock at all. “It looks like he has a growth spurt coming up, but that doesn’t make it any easier when it’s the middle of the season.”

Yuuri knows. _Of course_ Yuuri knows—he still remembers how debilitated he had felt not being able to land his jumps thanks to the shifting scale. Viciously experienced the stretch of his ‘fat pants’ mocking his failures.

Yuuri’s caught up in his head, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Viktor squeezes his hand in reassurance, offering a worried smile.

“Are you OK?”

He opens his mouth to answer, not sure what he could even _say_ to explain, but he’s cut off by a sharp clap. Lilia ending the argument with a heavy finality.

She brushes Viktor out the door before he can raise any sort of objection, and hurries to start the lesson. She demands Yuuri’s full attention, but his mind is miles away—still hung up on the taunting mirth Yuri had had sharing the nickname he had come up with, as if daring anyone to question the suitability. Remembering quiet breakdowns in bathrooms, the mindless and uncontrollable gorging despite the obvious consequences, the reasons why Yuuri still hadn’t gotten higher than a silver all season. The weeks and months and years that Yuuri had failed up until this point.

In this moment, he slips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone, and thanks once again for all the lovely comments and kudos you have given this story so far!! With this chapter, we are officially halfway through this fic and our two skaters have finally reunited!
> 
> I have [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) where you can follow me for writing updates, or other fandom-y things in general. Please let me know what you thought of this latest chapter!!


	4. Chapter 4

The apartment’s central heating keeps the living room toasty as their rinkmates-cum-guests chat amongst each other. Music drifts quietly from the sound system Viktor had bought but never learned how to use, and the table is full of different foods—ranging from those that would definitely fit the skaters’ nutrition plans, to those that most wouldn’t dare to touch even in the off-season. There’s no alcohol around thanks to the proximity of Europeans, but that hasn’t stopped Viktor from bubbling over in excitement for the occasion.

Yuuri has been by his side the entire night; always in reach of his fiancé as their guests share stories about Viktor’s life before they had met—how a sixteen-year-old Viktor had tried smuggling Makkachin into the dorms before Yakov agreed to keep her with him; how Viktor’s three older siblings would accompany him to the rink during the years he was in novices and juniors, but never his parents; how Georgi, after too much cheap vodka and an unsuccessful double-date, had dared a barely-adult Viktor to hijack one of the zambonis, which he did.

Yuuri is learning so much. After the months in Hasetsu it had felt like Viktor had had an advantage learning about Yuuri’s personal life and history, thanks to his family and Minako and the Nishigoris, but now he’s being treated to the same thing. His chest is warm as they laugh at another story of Viktor’s antics, and he leans his head against the other’s shoulder in contentment. Mila coos something in Russian, prompting Viktor to rub his cheek against Yuuri’s head with love, Kissing Yuuri’s knuckles chastely.

“When’s the wedding?” Georgi asks.

They speak at the same time, Yuuri saying “After I win gold” just as Viktor says “Once the season is over”.

Yuri rolls his eyes from his spot on the couch, purposefully separating himself from the rest of them as he eats another piroshki and scrolls through his phone. Yuuri has the urge to join him, even though he suspects it wouldn’t be welcome, just for a moment to breathe. The plate of untouched food he’s holding is starting to make his wrist hurt, and he tries to find somewhere he can subtly put it down.

“I’m sure your family is excited, Vitya,” Mila teases as she sips her drink, bringing Yuuri’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “Yakov kept getting calls from your Mama after your disappearance to Japan hit the news, asking if you were going to find the boy you kept talking about in your calls home.”

Viktor wilts a little, leaning his weight on Yuuri where he stands—draping himself over his shoulders with a pout.

“I’ve gotten at least five disappointed voicemails from Alyosha this week about why I haven’t come home to introduce Yuuri yet,” he complains. “It’s not like I don’t want to, but there’s no time between training right now!”

Yuuri hadn’t known that. Viktor’s family was something he’d kept out of the limelight for years, but not because of any rift between them—whenever he had mentioned his parents or siblings or grandmother in interviews it was with obvious care, but they hadn’t been suited to the celebrity. Outside of a few grainy photographs from Russian articles archived online from Viktor’s Junior years, there wasn’t much evidence of them. Yuuri remembers the one Nikiforov family photograph he had discovered when he was still a student: long-haired Viktor grinning to the camera as his older brothers stand either side, his older sister carrying the youngest Nikiforov as the toddler waves both her hands to the camera. There are pictures of the same kids, now all grown up, scattered around the apartment, but many seem to include Viktor less and less as the years had passed.

“She calls me a bad big brother.”

“Well, when was the last time you saw her?”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Viktor is reluctant to admit it.

“…Maybe Maxim’s wedding?”

“No wonder your family misses you.”

There’s a whine as Viktor admits defeat, and he slumps even further onto Yuuri, skewing his balance off.

“Whoa, hey, Vitya, c’mon,” Yuuri says as he struggles to stay upright—spreading his feet and happy he had found an empty spot on a cabinet for his plateful of food, freeing both his hands to steady the older skater. “We can see them after Four Continents, right? You’ve scheduled a couple days off.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mila agrees, turning to look over her shoulder towards the bundled teen still on the couch. “Hey Yura, check what Yakov’s scheduling is.”

“Check it yourself, _baba_ ,” he shoots right back, not even taking green eyes off the screen in front of him.

“You’re already on your phone.”

“So?”

“Ugh, fine,” she says with a sigh, walking to where her bag is, digging through the front pocket to find her phone. She returns with an older iPhone, already clicking through what looks like the calendar app.

“Looks like you’ll be home just past lunch Thursday. If you visit your family on Friday, you’ll have the whole weekend to spend with them.”

“What do you think, _Zolotse_?” Viktor asks. It’s obvious that the Russian is trying to keep his voice neutral, but the hope he has in asking is obvious to Yuuri. Viktor’s excitement is contagious, and he can feel how much the older man wants them to go. Smiling as a blush creeps up his neck, Yuuri pecks his fiancé’s closest cheek.

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Anticipation fills Yuuri as Viktor covers his face with light kisses back, before going to find his own phone. Even though the anxiety of being introduced to and probably scrutinised by Viktor’s family is a possibility his mind insists will happen, Yuuri doesn’t care. Family is important to Viktor, just like Yuuri’s is important to him—like moving to Saint Petersburg and joining Viktor’s life in Russia, this is just another part of the process of learning about his Vitya.

The phone call is as brief as a family call can be, Viktor going to their bedroom to make it. The clock indicates it’s nearing 10pm, but from the energy of Viktor’s voice, the late time doesn’t seem to have interrupted whoever’s on the other line.

After that, their small party begins to wind down. Mila, Georgi and Yuri bundle themselves in coats and scarves and gloves to protect against the cold, before wishing Viktor and Yuuri a good night.

“I said it before, but I’m really glad you’re here, Yuuri,” Mila says as she bundles him up in a hug. “You’re one of the family now!”

Georgi gives him a firm handshake with a smile, his free hand squeezing Yuuri’s upper arm.

“I look forward to sharing the rink with you, Yuuri.”

Yuri hangs back but nods his head to them both as he says “Night”. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes avert self-consciously for a second as he seems to search for his words.

“Thanks for all the food, and for inviting me, I guess. I’ll see you at the rink.”

Yuuri and Viktor wave to them from the door as the three leave together—Georgi accompanying the teens back to the dorms and Lilia’s, before heading to his own apartment.

With the music off and the two of them quietly packing away the dishes, peace returns to the apartment. Makka’s snoring is soft from her bed where she had retired several hours ago after the excitement of having people visiting had worn off. Everything is packed away in the fridge and dishes washed by the time Viktor’s phone screen lights up with a text notification—confirmation that their guests had made it home safely.

“How do you feel?”

“Hmm, tired, but happy,” Yuuri says, stretching his arms out before finding himself in Viktor’s embrace. “I loved hearing about your sordid youth,” smirking at the cute blush across the pale skin of Viktor’s nose.

“Only Chris and I know the _really_ sordid stories.”

“Well, then you’ll have to tell me them sometime,” a happy chuckle bubbling as he hugs Viktor closer. “Thank you for such a lovely night,” punctuating with a kiss. The warmth of his fiancé’s tongue against his own makes Yuuri forget it’s sub-freezing temperatures outside; tilting his head to push a little deeper, to press a little closer. It’s beautiful seeing Viktor melting into affection, his heart so open and true. Yuuri adores it, cherishing every moment he gets to share with Viktor like this; two people, heart to heart.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Another kiss, senses filling with the other man. Happiness buzzing down to his very cells from their connection.

“Are you sure you’re OK with visiting my family?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Scritching the fine hair at Viktor’s nape in encouragement. “It’s not fair that you’ve met your in-laws already, but I haven’t.”

The stars that glitter in the blue of Viktor’s eyes as he looks at Yuuri are mesmerising, and Yuuri’s powerless to fight against their pull. Yuuri’s noticed that casual reference to their relationship—being fiancés, being future _husbands_ —draws out this awe, like Yuuri is dazzling and impossible to look away from. There’s a hushed wonder in Viktor’s voice, and his thumb strokes gently down a cheek as he cups Yuuri’s face.

“You’re so wonderful, Yuuri. What have I ever done to deserve you?”

Frost climbs the windows, but the double-glazing keeps the heat in; Yuuri leans his head onto Viktor’s shoulder, voice low like he’s sharing a secret, when really it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You trusted me, and loved me, and let yourself _be_ yourself with me. I’m the lucky one, Vitya.”

Warm tears escape the corners of blue eyes, and he hides his face in Yuuri’s neck, shaking with muffled sobs and happiness as they hug each other tighter.

Yuuri keeps him there, close to his heart.

 

*

 

Viktor seems to be physically wilting at the thought of separation, the rest of his team waiting to board their waiting flight to the Czech Republic. Viktor bundles Yuuri in a hug, and he kisses him with desperation in the middle of the departures terminal, not wanting to let go, like he’s being sent off to war. He’s warm and solid and easy to lean into, and Yuuri can feel his own loneliness bubble up, but he breaks away first with a sympathetic smile. There hadn’t been a ticket booked for Yuuri to join the Russian team to Ostrava thanks to his surprise move to Saint Petersburg, but he’s happy he insisted for it to stay that way, giving him time to practice as much as he can before his fiancé’s return and their planned trip to meet the Nikiforovs. He’s been given free-run of the rink and their facilities in the absence of most of the coaches and skaters for the competition, and Yuuri can’t wait to take advantage of the quiet. Europeans run from the 25th to the 29th, and despite Viktor’s dramatics, it’ll be over before either of them know it. A week to himself with all the facilities of Russia’s greatest athletes is an unmissable opportunity, so he gives his final goodbye hug without any sadness.

“Tell Chris ‘Hi’ for me.”

“How can you even think about _Chris_ at a time like this?”

“He’s your best friend”

“ _You’re_ my best friend.”

Sighing, he holds Viktor’s hands in his, squeezing them softly. An overhead announcement is made in Russian, and Yuuri tilts his head with his melancholy smile.

“We talked about this. You’re going to do amazing, and I’ll be cheering you on from here. It’ll be just like Nationals.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I know, but try to have a good time anyway.”

The rest of his team has vanished into the security checks, and Viktor can’t delay any longer. Swooping in for one final kiss he finally breaks away to join his team on their flight.

“I love you,” Yuuri calls from where he’s standing. “I’ll take good care of Makka; we’ll be waiting for you to come home.”

Viktor waves his own goodbye—smile wide and heart-shaped as he calls his own “I love you”s in every language he knows.

 

*

 

As expected, the rink is quiet—not only because of a large portion of its athletes currently stationed across Europe, but because it’s far later than usual operating hours. Security let him in with little fuss, and he revels in the quiet hum of refrigeration usually drowned out by the sounds of practice. The ice is pristine, and the first step he takes onto the rink is sharp. He loves the sound of blades on fresh ice, and he’s reminded of the Ice Castle back in Hasetsu, when the old owners (and later, the Nishigoris) would let him skate in the middle of the night. Many nights spent on the ice in the lead-up to his move to Detroit, thinking and hoping and ready for the future. Now isn’t that different, as he’s preparing to be his best in order to chase his dreams. Wanting to win gold to ensure his happiness.

The first attempt at a quad axel is terrible at best—under-rotated and leaving him sprawled across the ice—but he just brushes himself off and tries again. It feels like forever since he’s attempted the jump, not having given it any time under Viktor’s instruction, but before long the rotations are getting closer and closer to passable. He still ends up on the ice with every landing, but Yuuri’s no stranger to falling.

He just gets up again, and keeps going.

 

*

 

Makkachin refuses to venture further than the small apartment garden in the cold darkness of predawn. Letting the aging dog relieve herself as he jogs in place for warmth, it’s barely past 5:30 when he puts out her food and gives her pats, before leaving for the rink again. It always seems to be dark whenever Yuuri is travelling to and from the apartment, the large part of the day lost to his practice time.

Aside from his short lunch break, where he returns to retrieve Makkachin and give the poodle a proper walk during daylight and the weak warmth of winter sunshine before swallowing a nutrient-rich and chemically-balanced protein drink, Yuuri spends his days practicing his quads or running through ballet drills. His feet have new blisters and a large bruise has darkened the side he’s been falling on when attempting the axel, but they’re all second-nature to the sport. He’s experienced worse. Pushing through until he collapses in bed with Makkachin, curling around her soft body as she snores.

 

*

 

Viktor seems the same as usual in his interviews, but Yuuri can see the tiredness not quite hidden by whatever facial routine and makeup he’s using. His fiancé had called him in the middle of the night, lonely and needing to hear Yuuri’s voice, and Yuuri had kept talking down the line until he had heard the soft breathing of Viktor in sleep, deep into the early hours of the morning.

His short program is beautiful but the technical side can’t compete against the other skaters who have loaded up with quads at this late point of the season. Tears run down Yuuri’s face unprompted, and he blames his own tiredness for them, even though he knows the truth. Viktor’s skates will always resonate with Yuuri—even the silliest joke of a program connects. He feels the buzzing in his bones to skate his response as the music plays—an echo of the year before when Yuuri had been fat and broken down in Hasetsu, but newly motivated to step back onto the ice and grab victory. The crowd cheers wildly at Viktor’s performance from the television, gifts raining onto the ice as his fiancé waves to the stands, and you would hardly know that Viktor had just started his international competitions for the season from his score.

It’s hard to deny the impact and legacy of a living legend, and the commentators speak with so much gusto it takes Yuuri a minute to realise that they’re speaking in heavily-accented English. Everyone has their eyes on Viktor, and Yuuri can’t help the rush of pride and possessiveness he has when he sees the flash of gold on the hand he’s waving.

Soon, he promises himself. Soon he’ll have earned it.

 

*

 

The day before Viktor is due to return, Yuuri forgets to eat. It’s only after he’s out of his post-training shower that he realises, but the exhaustion of the day has caught up enough that all he wants to do is to fall into bed—hunger non-existent after the long day. He blinks away spotty dizziness from his vision as he steps out of the shower, collapsing on his side of the comforter once it’s in reach. He had only had 3 hours of sleep the night before, but he had gotten preoccupied with rewatching his amateur videos of the quad axel attempts. His form has improved with all the practice, but it lacks the ease he feels with the triple. His entry speed is the most important part—to have enough momentum to complete the four and a half spins needed—so he’s been adjusting his step sequences just slightly. It’s a variation he doesn’t expect to pull off in time for Four Continents, but the promise of gold at Worlds is too tempting to not try.

He dreams of a wedding where they exchange their medals instead of rings, atop a podium so high he can’t see the ice below. There’s barely any space for them both to stand, and when Yuuri feels himself losing his balance he grabs for his husband’s hands to no avail. Viktor’s expression seems shocked that Yuuri had even thought they could both stay balanced together, his voice sweet but incredulous.

“Gold can’t be shared, Yuuri.”

 

*

 

Gangneung is just as cold as Saint Petersburg was, and Yuuri bundles himself deeper into his coat—his exhales escaping in clouds. As always, they’re early for the competition—allowing Yuuri at least two days to adjust to the time difference. His body is weary, and even after sleeping through the flight, he’s still tired. Viktor, that traitor, looks as refreshed and put together as always.

The last week of practice had been gruelling—Viktor picking apart each element of Yuuri’s skate again and again and again. In the time Yuuri isn’t on the ice or under Madame Baranovskaya’s hawk-like attention, he practices alone—eeking out the two hours he has scheduled for rest when Viktor is busy with Yakov and he has nothing else scheduled. He had found an abandoned gymnasium at one corner of the facility during Europeans when everyone else had been away. It’s not perfect, but it had given Yuuri the privacy he needed for his quad axel. The weightlessness he has throwing himself into a jump had kept him going, and he’s almost got the rotations down without landing on his ass.

As soon as his phone connects to the hotel’s wifi it buzzes with at least three dozen notifications—the perfect indicator that Phichit has already arrived and is looking for him. He smiles down to the screen, seeing the string of messages his best friend has sent.

“Phichit wants to get dinner with us tonight, if that’s alright?”

“Of course! Oh, but,” one hand to his chin in consideration, Viktor tilts his head. “Would you prefer to rest tonight?”

Shaking his head, Yuuri assures his coach with the most energetic smile he can muster.

“I’m alright. It’ll be nice seeing Phichit again, and I should probably stay up to help me adjust to the time difference.” Viktor looks sceptical, but doesn’t press the issue—just watching Yuuri head to the ensuite to freshen up first.

Phichit is as cheery as ever—his outgoing bubbliness contagious enough to give Yuuri a boost of energy for dinner, laughing at a story his best friend shares about a commercial he did in the weeks since they’ve seen each other. They’re joined by Celestino too, who involves Viktor in a conversation about some drama amongst the female athletes, and Yuuri has traumatic flashes of memories from Beijing—making Viktor promise that he won’t drink too much of the soju they’ve ordered and cause another round of embarrassingly scandalous photos.

It’s only after Phichit has run out of recounting the new misadventures his hamsters have gotten into that he pauses, thoughtful.

“Are you feeling alright? You’re kinda quiet.”

“Just tired after the flight; you know how bad I am with timezone jumping.”

“True, but you’re looking kind of pale. Sure you’re not sick?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. The sun doesn’t even come up til 9 most mornings in Saint Petersburg right now, and I’ve been busy with practice, so it’s not exactly like I have the opportunity to work on my tan,” he says with a placating chuckle. Perfectly shaped brows jump in surprise.

“Whoa, that’s worse than Detroit was!”

“Tell me about it.”

“Y’know, I didn’t want to bother you whilst you were moving and all that, but remember you can message me whenever, right? It’s just me and the critters, so I’ll always have time to listen to your complaining about Viktor’s snoring if you need.”

“Thanks, Phich.” A quiet moment of reflection before he realises it really _has_ been a while since they had talked.

“Sorry; things have just been so hectic between moving, and then Euros, and now being here—I haven’t even really had time to do much of anything aside from preparing for this.”

“Well at least we have six weeks til Worlds once we’re home, and then the off-season. Yay!” The Thai skater lifting his hands up with excited relief. “This is the first season I’ve qualified for so many competitions—I’ll need a serious vacation after everything. Maybe you can show me around the frigid North.”

“It’ll be springtime by then.”

“Same difference.”

“You should come visit in the summertime, Phichit,” Viktor interjects into their conversation. Yuuri hadn’t even realised he had been listening, but the Russian is leaning towards them now, head on hand. Celestino is nowhere to be found, and Yuuri has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with the half-dozen empty bottles on the table.

“There are so many events during the White Nights, and the weather is nice too. It’s when Saint Petersburg really comes alive.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be sure to give you guys a buzz on dates then,” entering some sort of note into his phone with all the ease of a social media fiend. “Oh, wait; when and where are you planning for the wedding? I might not be able to afford two plane tickets.”

“I haven’t won gold yet.”

“Is that some sort of challenge? Because don’t think for a second that I’m going to go easy on you just because Mr Perfect over there wants you to dominate him on _and_ off the ice.”

“ _God_ , Phichit! Please,” Yuuri groans into his hands, blush burning his cheeks, as his best friend just laughs uncaringly at his embarrassment. Things aren’t helped when Viktor glibly adds, “He doesn’t need gold for that.”

Things devolve from there, as Phichit needles them both about their sex life and Viktor plays along. There are at least five suggestions Yuuri knows he’ll probably have to deal with encountering in bed in the future, and it isn’t until the other two are debating about the best flavour of edible lube that Yuuri finds himself laughing along too.

The talks of weddings and competitions and gold medals fallen to the wayside, Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief.

 

*

 

After the short program he’s placed first, with Phichit’s _Shall We Skate_ nipping at his toes after getting the same energetic response as in China. Seung-gil doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction to the fact that he’s third, but Yuuri envies his collected demeanor anyway. The favourite to win, JJ, sits just behind in fourth after a flubbed quad toe-triple lutz, but his Free is the one packed with quads, so he’s still the most intimidating of the bunch. There’s nothing Viktor tells Yuuri to improve whilst they’re sitting in the Kiss and Cry; the _Eros_ costume sequins catching the flash of photographers, the chill of the rink brisk on his skin through the thin mesh panelling. The fabric hangs loosely on his legs, enough to bunch at his ankles, and Yuuri can’t help but dread trying to figure out how the beautiful garment had gotten stretched out so awkwardly.

He cycles through a half-dozen of his generic replies to reports wanting his opinion of the current standings, and Viktor picks up the slack when the adrenaline leaves Yuuri’s body—fatigue washing over him like a wave, the tension in his frame completely sapped. He still has the free program to go the next day, but it’s reassuring that all of Yuuri’s hard work is showing results.

Viktor is abnormally quiet in the elevator ride back to their room after everything else is done, but he makes up for it with how enthusiastically he moans with Yuuri’s cock in his mouth after the hotel room door had shut. Kneeling on the cheap hotel carpet in pants that likely cost thousands, he bobs his head—touching and tasting and sucking in all the places Yuuri likes best. Yuuri leans against the wall to keep himself balanced, his hands caressing through Viktor’s hair.

They skip the group dinner Phichit’s organised in favour of three rounds in bed, and Yuuri sleeps soundly the entire night.

 

*

 

It almost seems too easy when they hand him the gold medal at the top of the podium—like fate had humoured him and pushed his GOE higher because it would be pathetic if, after all the hard work and training and time, Yuuri had been dealt another silver.

His anxiety hadn’t flared up once before or during his performance, his mind had been calm and focused—really, Yuuri was in disbelief, expecting the other shoe to drop at any time to shatter this unrealistic outcome. Viktor had kissed him silly as the scores are announced, and he had kissed back—promise and happiness and joy in the feeling of their first gold medal together. Phichit sends a barrage of the best pictures from the press and his own camera roll through WhatsApp, followed by two groom emojis and a thumbs up. Yuuri downloads them all to his phone and sends his friend a thank you smiley. He doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not proud, effervescent with happiness and adrenaline.

The shine of the medal around his neck and the ring on his finger isn’t quite the same.

He lets Viktor kiss both anyway.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters, and things are starting to fall apart. Plus mentions of the family Nikiforov. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and the next one should be out soon!!
> 
> I have [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) where you can follow me for writing updates, or other fandom-y things in general. Please let me know what you thought of this latest chapter!!


	5. Chapter 5

The townhouse they drive to is about an hour outside of the city center. Large, with a garden big enough for Makkachin to run freely. Snow is still piled up on the ground from the night before, but all the pathways have been shovelled out in preparation for their arrival. Viktor had been abnormally quiet on the drive over; not saying much, but fidgeting every time they had to stop in traffic. Yuuri’s not sure if his fiancé is nervous or excited or a mix of both, but he offers a supporting hand to rest on the other man’s knee with a smile. Funnily, seeing Viktor’s behaviour stops Yuuri from focusing too much on any of his own—never letting his thoughts fall into a panic about all the ways he could make a terrible impression, instead hopeful that the Nikiforovs can welcome him into their family as easily as the Katsukis had for Viktor. He could never wish to avoid this, knowing how much it means to be chosen to be by Viktor’s side, and he’s proud. Stepping out of the car, the icy air bites against the skin he hadn’t completely covered—the air fresh in his lungs.

Makkachin is freed from the backseat, and she bounds off towards the familiar house—her red snowcoat bright against the blanket of white. Smoke rises from the chimney as it escapes into the blue sky, the snowy scene bright in the sunlight like the rink under lights during a competition. Yuuri helps Viktor pull their bags from the back of the car, and they make their way up the path hand-in-hand. A child’s yell comes from somewhere at the back of the garden, and immediately the poodle is in pursuit of the noise. A little girl stomps through the snow before running to meet with the elderly dog, her coat lined with fake fur and snow-wet gloves on her hands. Viktor calls out to her in Russian.

Up close, the little girl only comes up to Viktor’s hip, hugging him tightly as the Russian man readjusts her hat and scarf. Picking her up, she giggles and claps her hands. Viktor nods towards Yuuri in what he can only assume is an introduction—picking his name out from the string of sentences.

He switches to English so perfectly after that, Yuuri almost doesn’t realise he’s the one being spoken to now.

“This is Nina, my brother’s daughter,” he says, encouraging the young girl to greet Yuuri in Russian and then sloppy English—her grey eyelashes fluttering in bashfulness. Yuuri returns the greeting in his own amatuer Russian, and the three of them giggle at his terrible pronunciation.

“We should get inside, it’s far too cold to stay out here,” letting Nina hold both of their hands as they walk towards the Nikiforov home. “I’m sure Mama has prepared quite the welcome.”

He’s proven right as soon as they step inside; a hearty-looking woman throwing her arms around them both in welcome, like she had been waiting in anticipation for them to step through the door. Somewhere in the embrace, Nina had escaped and run down the hall, calling for someone else. Viktor’s mother hugs them tight, with the perfection of a parent who had years of experience—the comforting feeling of being welcome transcending any lingual difference, and the delicious smell of baking stuck to her clothes. She’s tall and fair, but her hands are rough from hard work and shoulders broad. Her lips bow with the same smile as her son’s, and her wheat-blonde hair is braided to fall down her back.

Hands rubbing up and down their upper arms, as if to warm off the cold, she kisses her son’s cheeks in welcome—three each side.

" _Viten’ka, kak pozhyvaitse_?"

“English, Mama. _Angliyskiy,_ ” he replies after giving his own loving pecks, twining an arm to curl around Yuuri’s back with a fond sigh. “I’d like to introduce you to Yuuri, my fiancé. Yuuri, this is my mother Valeriya.”

Valeriya beams, taking Yuuri’s face in her hands and kissing his cheeks too. Not quite sure how to reciprocate, he nods his head in a bow with a smile.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your family.” Tutting in a kind chastisement, she doesn’t let him linger as a stranger.

“You have made _Viten’ka_ very happy, Yuuri _._ My family and I are only sorry it has taken so long for us to meet,” her eyes deep blue like the depth of lagoons, different to her son’s, but still warm like a summertime.

After Yuuri replies with his own smile, the woman pointedly looks to her son, demeanor completely changed.

“Ah, but skating comes first, yes?” Eyes narrowed in focus at Yuuri’s fiancé, who’s nervous smile and obvious avoidance of eye contact resembles an abashed toddler perfectly.

“Mama, I told you—it was the middle of the season, and Yuuri surprised me by arriving so early!”

Something else is said in Russian, and Viktor whines—his excuses obviously not acceptable under the ire of the older woman. Giving one last chastisement to her youngest son, the disciplinary tone drops from her voice the second she looks back to Yuuri, smiling.

“Come, you need to meet everyone and have a decent meal,” giving the pair a moment to toe off their shoes before leading them farther into the house. “Both of you are too skinny.”

Yuuri has never had someone say that to him in his entire life. His body doesn’t _do_ skinny, so he chalks it up to the Russian woman’s unfamiliarity with him. If she had seen him at his worst, like Viktor had, she wouldn’t question the need for him to stay slim.

The kitchen is warmer by several degrees, and the countertops are covered in dishes and platters of every size, the food steaming warmth. A stocky man sits at the small table in one corner, laughing with another. Eyes flickering to the doorway as soon as they step in, his smile widens even further and he moves to stand with arms outreached and a cry of “ _Vitya!_ ”

“ _Papa!_ ” Viktor replies with as much gusto, allowing his father to pull him into a very powerful looking hug. The other, younger, man is next in line to greet Viktor, and he laughs with a tease as he pats him on the back—Viktor quickly replying with a quick, humoured reply, which makes both men laugh louder.

“You are _gospodin_ Katsuki, yes?” Viktor’s father says with a warm handshake. “I am Mikhail Ivanovich, welcome to our home.”

More introductions are made as Yuuri meets the multitudes of Nikiforovs and their families as they converge to the kitchen in the news of Viktor and Yuuri’s arrival. There’s Nadezhda, the oldest of the siblings, a photographer working for one of Russia’s most popular magazines and mother to a pair of mischievous boys throwing snow at each other in the garden; Maxim, the father of Nina and married to a milky-pale woman named Vera, who had been in the kitchen discussing renovation budgeting over tea before Yuuri and Viktor’s interruption; Dmitry, a physics professor at Saint Petersburg State University; and finally Viktor’s youngest sister, Alyona, who introduces herself a little later after she returns from her morning classes, and is the only one who still lives with their parents. The sheer amount of new information is enough to make Yuuri’s head spin and anxiety prickle down his spine, but Viktor reassures him with a squeeze of his hand—accompanying him to the outside patio for fresh air and the chance to relax after the overload. Logically he knows that he’s not expected to remember everything all at once—familiarity instead grown over time—but it’s hard to convince himself of that when he’s trying to make a good impression. Viktor kisses him with a smile when Yuuri shares that, promising Yuuri that he’s already made the best impression just by putting up with Viktor for so long.

Lunch is served at a dark wood table that’s larger than Yuuri’s ever seen in a private home. There are mismatched chairs crammed around its circumference, and he’s in awe at the ease in which the multitudes of dishes are passed around and filled. Everything look delicious, and full of the things he’s not allowed to eat—unable to refuse any of the fragrant, creamy stews or butter-laden vegetables being offered, under risk of earning another chastisement from Valeriya.

“Good food will make you strong for skating,” she assures him, and Yuuri grins and eats and enjoys every bite acutely aware that he’ll have to work hard in the following days to recover from the temptation of fresh home-cooked meals. They’re staying overnight, and the thought of dodging mealtimes tomorrow makes him anxious, knowing that he won’t be able to counterbalance the food being offered with his usual running or gym or dance routine. He loves the meal—every bite of it—and it just makes him feel worse, knowing his own weaknesses. Afterwards, nursing his tea with too much jam, he sits beside Viktor on a sofa in the sitting room—fireplace roaring against the cold—as Viktor’s family draws him into conversation. They want to know about Japan, his family, his life up until that point—things he’s sure his fiancé has already told them. Dimitry asks about his recent graduation, and how he had liked the university in Detroit he had attended; Alyona wonders aloud about the differences between onsens and banyas, and whether the health benefits are the same. Skating is briefly, if ever, mentioned, and Yuuri can’t help but be surprised. There’s a call to another round of food once the evening reaches its peak, and Viktor’s father produces a bottle of vodka for the table to share—the translucent spirit sloshing in Yuuri’s glass in invitation.

Yuuri feels lethargic under the weight of the large meals, the haze of good alcohol and the radiant heat of the house, and it’s a relief to retreat to the room they’ll be staying in for the night.

The room was apparently Viktor’s before he had moved to the dorms to train under Yakov over a decade ago, but there is little about it now to betray that fact—no childhood posters or books or toys to reveal a twelve-year-old Viktor’s interests. The tidy guest bed and clean walls are comfortable, but Yuuri feels cheated somehow—his inner childhood self disappointed in being unable to see how his idol had grown up. Considering that his own parents had left his room untouched in all the years he had been gone, it doesn’t seem fair. He pouts at the injustice.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor asks, looping his arms around the small of Yuuri’s back and snuggling close. He had restrained his normal urges towards tactility when they had been around his family, and Yuuri is sure he’s making up for lost time now.

Sighing a little, Yuuri tilts his head to one side.

“I was hoping to see all the embarrassing things you might have had in your room as a child, but I guess I should have realised that it would have changed after 15 years.”

Something melancholic flickers across his fiancé’s face, but it melts into something close to adoration as he looks at Yuuri.

“I don’t think I’ve thought of this place as home in a very long time,” he admits softly.

“I never really gave it much thought, I was so busy with skating and winning competitions, but there’s nothing in this house of me. I haven’t belonged here for a very long time.”

“That’s not true!” Yuuri can’t help but declare, aghast, a little louder than necessarily. “Your family loves you.”

“They do, and they truly love me as a son and a brother, but they don’t expect me to function within the family like the rest of them. I thought I was OK with that.” Viktor breaks from their embrace to trace a line along the wallpaper as if remembering something before standing at the window, looking out into the winter darkness.

“Did you notice that they only have two medals of mine on display?”

He had—both of the brassy medallions hanging with other tokens of family achievements from throughout the years, cheaply made and showing their age.

“The first was a participation prize from the local rink during a New Years festival when I was five, the other one is from my first novice event—the same place Yakov first saw my skating and scouted me.”

It seems absurd that Viktor, twice-over Olympic medalist, would have such little of his career acknowledged in his family home, and Yuuri doesn’t quite know what to say, shocked into stillness as he waits for his fiancé to keep talking. Viktor has mercy, not expecting an answer as he continues his reminiscence.

“Those are the medals of Viktor Mikhaylovich, before he became a skating legend and an international star. My parents never stopped me from pursuing figure skating, but they never encouraged it either. I think now they regret teaching me at all.”

For Yuuri, who had first discovered, and then later grown to love Viktor through his skating, he can’t even imagine how anyone could ignore the passion and artistry the Russian man had crafted on the ice over his lifetime. His own parents had never truly understood Yuuri’s love for the sport, but they radiated pride for him with every win and loss—the whole town of Hasetsu embarrassingly celebrating his career, and welcoming him back as one of their own. It makes Yuuri’s heart ache.

The low buzz of alcohol in his blood makes his emotions feel too large to contain within his body, and his lower lip wobbles as he sniffles—rubbing at his eyes to make sure no tears drip down his face, cheeks red and blotchy from the upset.

“How could they not be proud of you? How wonderful you are?”

“Oh Yuuri, my _zolotse_ , _moya lyubov_ , please don’t cry.” It’s an unsuccessful request, and Yuuri smothers his face into the warm knit of Viktor’s sweater to try and combat the sadness that had washed over him for Viktor. He can hear his heartbeat, and he rests his ear right on top of it—listening to it’s steady thump of life in an attempt to calm down. His anguish had risen up and popped like a bubble suddenly, and now in its wake, he just feels bone-weary and tired. Unsure of what to say, but his soul resolute in one single fact—vibrating within him.

“Your skating changed my life.”

He’s sure Viktor knows this—sure the story had been told countless times by Yuuko and Mari and his mother over the summer months from last year—but he can’t remember if he’s ever told the other man himself. He needs to know; needs to understand that Yuuri cherishes every part of him—the skating, the sadness, the soft touch of his skin against his own. The Viktor of now, and then, and the future are all Viktor’s Yuuri cherishes wholeheartedly. Each part a crucial piece to the man he loves.

“I guess that makes us even then,” Viktor whispers into the crown of Yuuri’s head, sure to have been lost if the winter night had been any louder. Memories of a private skate posted for the world to see, snow falling just like now as Yuuri’s wildest dreams had become reality.

The kiss they share feels substantially weightier than normal, and the quiet is unbroken as they make their way to bed—stripping naked and curling around each other under the blankets. The warmth they produce is captured under the sheets, and their skin grows sticky with the humidity of their proximity. They’re touching in all the places they’ve entwined—thighs and chests and stomachs and calves—cocks hardening against each other as they’re pressed together, soundless little gasps less than an exhale on Viktor’s breath. It feels different, like they’ve discovered themselves and each other for the first time, and Yuuri leans into the other man—drags himself against his body, nerves alighting with sensation. Hooks his legs to lock around Viktor’s hips and keeping him in place, grinding against him. Fingers curl in his hair, a hand circling their cocks, and the leisurely feeling of unhurried arousal simmering. Yuuri doesn’t even feel a burning need to come undone like this, even though his blood sings with arousal and sex with Viktor always satisfies his most primal, intimate senses. Being here together, in the bedroom Viktor once belonged to, the effect of time and change is stark—the past a long-forgotten memory of the man he’s with now.

When they finally do come, spilling thick between the small space of their bodies, its with a satisfied sigh and a swallowed whisper of a name. Viktor wipes up the mess with spare tissues and hugs Yuuri close almost immediately afterwards. Shifting awkwardly, it’s a while before they find a comfortable situation, and Viktor murmurs in annoyance.

“What’s wrong?”  
“You’re hard here and it’s making it uncomfortable to hug you,” one hand tracing the jut of Yuuri’s hip bone in explanation. Viktor’s fingertips tickle as they move.

“It’s called a bone, Viktor. They’re pretty common parts of hips, so there’s not much I can do to help you.”

He huffs at Yuuri’s sass, thumb running over the spot again.

“I just don’t remember your hips being so bony.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, not sure what the problem is. He rises up on his arms so that he’s looming above Viktor, and gives him a peck on the mouth, hoping to chase away the small crinkle of a frown from his fiancé’s face. It’s fairly effective.

“Sorry I have a bony hip, how can I ever make it up to you?” Teasing grin as his fiancé grabs around his waist and puckering his lips making kissy noises.

Yuuri laughs quietly, fulfilling the wordless request.

 

*

 

Yuuri doesn’t know why it comes up, but he’s personally offended at the suggestion of a sports psychologist when Viktor mentions it two days after their return from the Nikiforov household.

He had been on the elliptical when the Russian had found him, making up for the lost time from their visit and the excesses of past meals. Sweat falls from his brow and sticks his shirt to his back, his breathing uneven as he pushes harder on the equipment. He tries to stay focused on the movements of his legs, but it’s useless—instead coming to an abrupt stop and swallowing down half of his water. Viktor’s looking at him—waiting for an answer, a reaction—but Yuuri doesn’t give him the benefit of one. Instead he tries to mentally run through reasons _why_ it seems like he’d need a psychologist—the FFKKR over-reacting to his anxiety, or staff being extra cautious with athletes after the bad press the women’s groups had been having. He chews his lip in irritation, hating this feeling. Yuuri knows himself: he had never needed a psyche in Japan or Detroit, and he doesn’t need one now. He’s got his training down pat—secret jump practice and all—and two gold medals to show for it. He’s aiming for gold at Worlds, and that takes more than just self-confidence. It takes precision and perfection and _practice_.

He doesn’t remember what he had said when he snapped his reply to Viktor, but his coach hadn’t pushed it. Still bristling, Yuuri leaves early because they _want him to_ , not waiting for his fiancé. He showers, lets Makka out to relieve herself, and goes to bed early. He hears Viktor’s return home a few hours later, but the other man never opens the door to the bedroom—quiet footsteps, running water, a hushed murmur of a phone call that Yuuri can’t make out, the only signs of the other person in the apartment. Yuuri falls asleep alone, still upset, but waiting to see his fiancé. He wants them to talk properly, but the fatigue of the day captures him despite his efforts.

Waking up the next morning, he’s still alone. The sheets are cold and unwrinkled. Viktor hadn’t come to bed, and that twists Yuuri’s stomach in knots, He’s embarrassed at the stupid overreaction he had had the previous day, but also too stubborn to apologise first—if Viktor wants to act immature and ignore him, then Yuuri isn’t going to seek him out either.

He’s out the door with his gear bag in less than ten minutes—hoping to push in some jump practice before inevitably having to face Viktor at the rink. A piled bundle of blankets on the couch is the only indication the other man is even in the apartment at all, an empty glass abandoned on the coffee table. Locking the door behind him, he doesn’t leave a note—sure that Viktor will know where to find him even without one.

Wind bites at his skin, and frost covers the ground. He’s almost used to the sunless mornings, and they suit his mood. Nothing like the harsh winters of Russia to illustrate a tumultuous heart. His anxiety taking this as the perfect moment to question his decisions again—sure that he’s failing on adjusting to life in Saint Petersburg, the worst fiancé he could ever be.

_Only until Worlds_ , he tells himself, _and then things will be better._

 

*

 

They say tragedy comes in threes.

Yuuri can’t help but remember that when he crashes to the ice again after attempting the axel and can’t seem to find the energy to pull himself back up. Sprawled on the ice, he remembers the previous season: the death of Vicchan, his failure at the GPF, his spiralling weight and guilt sealing his fate for the following competitions. At the time, it didn’t seem like anything good could have come from that series of events, but it had been _because_ of them that Viktor had even noticed Yuuri at all.

But there’s nothing good that can come out of this situation.

A chill is seeping through the thin fabric of his practice outfit, and his side hurts with fresh bruises. Nothing feels broken, but he can’t even push himself to sit up from where he lies to check. There’s no one else at the rink yet aside from scarce staff, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that he may be stuck here for hours—no one knowing—and panic flares up. The warnings to never skate alone, to always have someone around in case of emergency, flashing red in his mind. The ceiling above is blurry without his glasses, not even able to tell how early or late it might be with the morning light. His tongue feels heavy and uncooperative as he struggles to call for help—but with no one else at the rink, who will even hear him? His breathing is getting shallower as his panic rises, and a detached voice in his head tells him he’s hyperventilating.

“Oi!”

_Yurio?_

“Hey, just stay awake, OK?” The blond kneeled at his side and fumbling for his phone. _Help_ , Yuuri realises, and he smiles weakly to the teen, who’s now rapidly talking on the phone with someone in Russian. Yuuri can pick out a few words he recognises, but he can’t even think to translate them. His eyes slip closed, listening, concentrating. The noise of commotion echoing against the ice as more people arrive. Someone calling his name.

He falls asleep with warm hands on his own.

 

*

 

An IV is attached to the crook of his elbow and the smell of disinfectant is strong in the hospital room. Grey clouds crawl across the sky, and Yuuri watches them, with bile in his throat at the shame and disappointment in himself—at how pathetic he must look, stuck in bed and his body unable to keep up with him. He attempts to avoid the worried glances Viktor keeps giving him, unsure how to break the silence, but each one feels like it’s burning on his skin. A focused pinpoint of a laser centred right on Yuuri. He just wishes he had landed that jump, had been able to bounce back up like usual, then none of this fuss and worry would be happening. He and Viktor could have been running through their exhibition skate right now, instead of sitting in this tense distance, and Yuuri hates it.

Anemia, suspected malnutrition and muscle fatigue are all the things the doctor had listed out after his examination—blood work being taken and tested, a million questions being asked. Yuuri knows what those symptoms sounds like—knows what everyone’s probably thinking now—but he can’t accept it as truth.

_Anorexia athletica_ —unrecognised by most measures in the medical field, but familiar for any athlete at their level. Horror stories shared between students and coaches of heart attacks killing promising athletes at the height of their careers, body unable to keep up with the punishing demands. The evidence of it having crawled into Yuuri’s life and taken over is obvious now in hindsight, but he hates having to confront it like this: Viktor, his eyes red from crying, from tears he hadn’t shown Yuuri. He looks unkempt from the events but steady, and Yuuri just wants to fall into his embrace; to rest and recover, trusting his fiancé to protect him from himself.

He doesn’t feel sick, he doesn’t feel crazy—he’s just dedicated to his goal, which means being the best he can be. Winning gold demands peak performance, and Yuuri’s body has never been capable of keeping up. It’s his curse, his punishment, for flying too close to the sun; Viktor, a shining beacon that had lit up his world, just as quickly burning so bright that Yuuri could do nothing _but_ fall and crash back down to Earth.

Fingers gently slide atop his own until securely interlocked. Viktor hasn’t said a word yet to Yuuri, as his coach or as his fiancé, but there isn’t much to say. The heartbroken look in blue eyes just makes Yuuri feel nauseous.

“This is my fault,” is the first thing he says to Yuuri, and Yuuri really does feel like puking at that—shaking uncontrollably, he breaks apart. Uncontrollable, tearless sobs escaping as if finally freed from deep in his heart.

“No.”

“Yes,” he counters. “I saw something was wrong, but I didn’t do or say anything until it was too late. There have been plenty of times I’ve failed you as a coach or as a fiancé, but this is the worst.”

“V-Vitya, no. I–”

“People warned me—Coach Celestino, Lilia, Minako, Yakov,” counting them off his fingers as he lists them.

“I didn’t want to take their advice. I couldn’t believe them; I was arrogant and thought I knew you better than they did, but you always give so much of your heart to the ice that I couldn’t tell when it stopped being just that.”

It feels like his words should be scalding, but there’s nothing but sadness and love. Yuuri feels like a failure, undeserving of such care, and recoils from the comfort.

“Please let me help you now,” he begs, voice low and just shy of desperate. It curls around Yuuri’s heart and shocks it, soothing some unknown ache that had had been there. He’s far from fixed—there are too many things still broken and battered between them—but for the first time in a while, Yuuri doesn’t feel the heavy pressure of his life crushing him. It feels like the first wobbling steps towards what he had been killing himself for: happiness and success with Viktor; his single-mindedness in his actions achieving those things up until now not allowing him to see that he had been leaving behind the most important piece.

Viktor doesn’t interrupt him when he apologises; when the snot and tears and self-hatred spills out of him in a disgusting display. There are questions and self-reflection and recovery to be done, and it seems too tremendous, too overwhelming, for Yuuri to do all by himself.

Thankfully, Viktor makes sure he doesn’t have to.

 

*

 

Yuri seems pale when he comes to visit Yuuri’s hospital room, green eyes wide and full of apprehension, like he’s not quite sure how to react to Yuuri sitting in bed, tubes and monitors still attached to him even though the bed rest has done wonders . He’s followed in by Lilia, arms full of a bouquet which she arranges artfully on the side table.

It’s a nice, if unexpected, visit, and Yuuri even gets the blond to smile—toothy, and a little wan, but there nonetheless. He stands by the bed, ram-rod straight and clearly antsy; Yuuri’s not sure why.

“Um—” Yuri starts, glancing to Lilia, who quietly waits for him to continue, and takes a thick swallow. He looks straight at Yuuri, who can’t hide his surprise at the sudden serious tone, red flush climbing his neck.

“I never meant what I said, when I called you _svínya_ ,” he finally says. “I didn’t mean to—no, I didn’t realise how much that could hurt, hearing that, and I didn’t— I don’t—want to hurt you.”

Yuuri sits up a little straighter in his hospital bed, gown wrinkled after the few days spent under observation, Viktor still holding his hand in his own like a precious lifeline keeping him moored. He can’t say anything, afraid to interrupt before the younger skater is done—seeing how obviously he wants and needs to say his piece.

“You’re not any sort of pig, Katsudon. You’re a damn fine skater and an amazing person, and I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.” He has his head bowed, like an apology would be done in Japan, and it makes Yuuri smile—patting a spare spot on the bedding for him to sit down.

“Thank you, Yuri. It means a lot to hear you say that,” smiling in reassurance as Yuri blushes and averts his eyes, embarrassed.

“This”—gesturing to the room that surrounds them—“isn’t your fault. It wasn’t a rude nickname that landed me in here now, but you are right when you said it hurt. It fed into and confirmed all the things I believed about myself, and made it feel like the truth.” The younger boy’s knuckles are white as they’re balled into fists, lip bitten and face upset. It’s clear that he’s still troubled about it, and Yuuri understands too well.

“I forgave you long ago, Yuri—like I said, you didn’t say anything to me that I didn’t already believe—so don’t worry too much, and just make sure to remember to think about what you say from now on. In fact, I wanted to apologise to you too, for being in that state when you found me—I’m sure I scared you.”

Yuri shakes his head _no_ , but Yuuri remembers the panic in the other’s voice too clearly for it to have been a figment conjured up by his imagination.

“Have you spoken to Tanya yet?” Lilia inquires once it’s obvious the previous conversation has settled.

“Viktor arranged some time for us to meet this afternoon,” Yuuri replies, smiling to his fiancé. “I’m still dreading it, but I know that it’s something I have to do.”

“She’s the best there is, and using her expertise is not a failure, Katsuki.”

“I know.”

“Good, because I hope to see you healthy for Worlds.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm not 100% sure that the last chapter sent out updates properly, so please make sure you've read the last chapter before this one. Only one more chapter to go before this fic comes to a close.
> 
> I have [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) where you can follow me for writing updates, or other fandom-y things in general. Please let me know what you thought of this latest chapter!!


	6. Chapter 6

On the first day he meets his sports therapist, Tanya.

She is soft around the edges: her hair a bundle of curls, and cheeks round with an understanding smile. An over-large cardigan hangs from her frame, and the smell of honey lingers around her, as if seeping from her skin. She doesn’t look like an athlete, and Yuuri quietly wonders why she chose this line of work.

He’s convinced Viktor to join him during his counseling sessions with the kind woman, both as his coach and fiancé, under the assurance that Yuuri would prefer him to know his worst moments than not. She doesn’t object, and having Viktor’s quiet support makes Yuuri feel a little braver facing his problems head-on.

“We can conduct our time together however you feel the most comfortable with, alright Yuuri? You’ve developed a set of bad habits that we’re trying to correct, and I need to know how they started in order to give you the best help I can.”

When Tanya asks his thoughts and expectations for their sessions together, he answers as honestly as possible. He knows that it’s pointless to avoid the truth if he wants to make any real progress.

“No one in my family has ever gone to counseling before, and they’ve turned out fine; I always thought I should be the same. In Japan it’s not talked about—it’s seen as shameful if you’re too obvious about your problems—and although my family has never worried about those sorts of social perceptions, I never wanted to be the cause of sullying the family name.”

“They must be so proud, to have a son as kind and conscientious as you, and who has achieved so much.”

“I think they’re just happy I found something I wanted to do.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Yuuri. Being an athlete takes an incredible level of dedication; you live a life completely different from what most people can commit to.”

And well…

She’s not wrong.

 

*

 

The third day, Viktor looks as if he’s about to shatter like glass, guilt slicing through him at the thought that he might be responsible for Yuuri feeling this way about himself. Upset swimming in his eyes, he cups Yuuri’s right hand in both of his—the ring shining warmly under the fluorescent lights.

“Do you really think I would leave you if you gained weight? That I could discard the most important person in my life over something like that?”

“No, I—”

“You told me not to test your feelings. To believe in you more than you can believe in yourself—but yet you so easily question the dedication of my love for you?”

There’s no heat of anger to his words, just the unexplored depths of sadness. Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. What _can_ you say when faced with that sort of question? Tanya bridges the awkward silence before Yuuri can get caught up in his anxieties, smiling with understanding.

“Viktor is both your coach and your fiancé, Yuuri; he’s occupying two very different roles in your life right now. Do you think that fact has a part in why you’re feeling this way now?”

 

*

 

After the first week, Yuuri weeps when he hears that Viktor never thought he’d have the opportunity to get married. That during his life before Yuuri, he hadn’t expected to find anyone who wanted to spend a lifetime with someone who struggled to get out of bed on the worst days—who had only managed a training schedule the past few years thanks to Yakov never letting him wallow for too long. Who would want him as more than just Viktor Nikiforov, skating legend.

His voice subdued when he shares that he hadn’t wanted to orphan Makkachin, and that was the reason he had never been brave enough to act on his thoughts of slipping into the vast abyss of nothingness whenever the thoughts arose during the off-season.

That he’d finally gotten his antidepressants refilled after their dance in Sochi, finally remembering how it felt to _live_ again, rather than just exist.

Finding someone who made him _want_ to keep living his life to the fullest.

 

*

 

It’s twelve days since he had been discharged from the hospital when Yuuri shouts “WHAT?!” Cheeks red in embarrassment, his heart thumping wildly as his fiancé just looks back at him, surprised at the reaction.

“I thought it was obvious? Your legs are sinful, Yuuri.”

Viktor is trying to kill him, he’s sure—smiling like an angel as he glibly admits how often he had masturbated to the idea of fucking Yuuri’s thighs. If it hadn’t been said with such sincerity, Yuuri would be sure that the Russian was playing some sort of elaborate joke.

“But why?”

“Does he need a reason, Yuuri?”

“Oh, god.” He had forgotten about Tanya, muffling her giggle into the sleeve of her sweater

“You’re so soft and plush there, even with all the muscle.”

And that was how Yuuri had learned that his husband-to-be _really_ didn’t mind any extra weight his body might cling to throughout the year.

 

*

 

It’s the end of the third week when Yuuri realises that he ate the breakfast Viktor prepared for them without a second thought. No rush to calculate calories or insistent urge to find the nearest treadmill, instead just listening to the murmured voices of morning radio that Viktor tunes to for news updates, and watching the sun slowly fill the sky with pinks and oranges and golds as it rises.

They curl up on the couch, Makkachin at their feet, and Yuuri feels like he’s finally discovered the slice of Saint Petersburg to call home—Viktor loosely hugging him with one arm, attention on his phone as he answers emails. His practice starts in an hour, but they’ve set a strict ‘no coaching at home’ policy under Tanya’s instruction, and Yuuri has to admit that it's helping. Both of their lives are so wrapped up in skating and competitions and publicity as it is, that shedding that part of themselves once they leave the rink has made it easier to not get the lines crossed between work and home.

The quad axel is still his secret, wanting to surprise Viktor once he’s landing it consistently, but he’s not practicing it alone anymore. Yakov has him suspended in the jump harness whenever Viktor is busy elsewhere, and although the septuagenarian thinks he’s crazy to even try it, he never stops him other than to indicate time’s up.

It’s all baby steps towards Yuuri’s recovery, but it’s progress.

A happy gasp catches Yuuri’s attention back to the present and he turns to look at Viktor, who’s still got his eyes locked to his phone, but his mouth is slowly growing into the largest smile Yuuri’s ever seen, as the Russian processes what he’s reading.

“Vitya?”

“They approved it!” Blue eyes wide with happiness as he shows Yuuri the email in question. The multitudes of English sentences blend together a little too messily, thanks to Viktor’s shaking, but he catches the most important information anyway.

The sentence is less than ten words, but it feels like it takes a decade for Yuuri to understand it.

“Really?” Not even believing it after reading it himself. Disregarding his question—which had been rhetorical anyway—Viktor pounces on him, kissing Yuuri slow as his body sings with it. Happy tears mingling with euphoric laughter as Yuuri draws his fiancé down again and again for more kisses—unable to express his joy with words he chases the feeling further, wrapped up in the other man. His Vitya: imperfect and clumsy and often embarrassing, and everything Yuuri adores. The man who saw him at his worst and found the beauty in it; the victim to his angry backlash and destruction, who accepted it all without question; the one who took all the broken pieces of Yuuri and treasured them anyway. His coach who had believed in him, helped him, made him realise how much he was capable of.

His life, his love, his everything.

 

***

 

Helsinki is filled to the brim—friends and family seated in the stands as the media crowds around the rink. Viktor’s family, in particular, is creating quite a stir as it’s the first time any of them had shown public support for their son at a competition in over a decade, and rumors have begun to circulate already. Phichit had dramatically read out the best ones over dinner the night before

Yuuri’s own family is flanked by Minako and the Nishigoris, who wave conflicting banners, and cheer his name whenever he’s close to the ice. His parents look a little overwhelmed at the crowd surrounding them, and it looks like his father is realising the _scale_ of Yuuri’s career for the first time in his life.

Viktor waits beside the rink, his costume covered by the red and white of his Team Russia jacket. He gives Yuuri a tight hug and watches him step onto the ice, the crowd cheering wildly. The warmth of the other man’s body still lingers all the places that they touched, and he kisses his ring with a smile at center ice.

It’s the final day of the competition, the last for the season, and the anticipation buzzes in a crackling energy under Yuuri’s skin. He’s never qualified for Worlds before, and the ice seems so bright and fresh and clean, like his new goals for the competition. He’s no longer barrelling blind towards gold without question, pushing himself beyond health and happiness, for the combined seven minutes on the ice and a quantified ‘won’ relationship; no debut for the quad axel today as a product of desperation.

He wants to win gold today for himself, and everything he’s achieved this past season, with _Yuri on Ice_. Wants to show the world the heights that Katsuki Yuuri can reach in his story, as the perfect swan song to that part of his life. Regardless of whether he wins gold tonight, or reaches the podium at all, Yuuri has won. He’s achieved something that ‘Katsuki Yuuri’ would never have believed possible.

The ceremony isn’t until tonight, but that makes little difference in the crowd’s reaction when the announcer presents him to the world—sound exploding and molding into a wall of noise as Yuuri smiles to the cameras and waves.  
“Representing Japan tonight, Yuuri Nikiforov-Katsuki!”

Another surprise sure to cause headlines before his program is even over, laughing to himself as he sees his coach being swarmed by journalists on the sidelines at the surprise information. _Tonight we’ll be husbands_. All Yuuri feels is joy at the knowledge that this is right where he belongs—an irreplaceable part of the pair Nikiforov-Katsuki—skating his heart for the world to see.

 

“Show them what you can do,” had been Viktor’s only instruction.

 

So Yuuri does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's already Dec 25th here, and in St Petersburg--so Happy Birthday, Viktor!! and Merry Christmas to everyone else. With this chapter, the fic comes to a close--but I have even more of my YoI/Victuuri writing to read; including my supernatural AU [the loneliness between our bones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746753) or my Hiroko Katsuki POV [Born to Win](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752975/chapters/23842281)
> 
> I have [Twitter](https://twitter.com/writinggee) where you can follow me for writing updates, or other fandom-y things in general. Please leave a comment if you liked it!!


End file.
